Jolly Bhai

Pre-amble:

Ambition is adversary of serenity. Passion -nemesis of tranquility. Most souls strive for extraordinaire; some -to be mere ordinary. Behind each sacredly guarded gate of status quo lay sagas devilishly bizarre, parables -divinely vatic. When I entered Jolly house, its inhabitants seemed perfectly ordinary, the usual desis, but a sojourn of three unforgettable months amongst them, and I came to realize, how in each and every heart, and soul, resides libraries of tales and novels, clandestine and concealed; how they all have composed their own rhythms, their own beats, as unique to the other, as spherical mazes located in each’s thumb.

Telltale:

I re-visited Chicago after nearly six years of scholarly wilderment last month, on 11th of May 2006. I went back to - what used to be called - Jolly house, but there was no Jolly bhai, not even any desis.

It had been more than a year since I’d behold the joy of conversing with Jolly bhai; his phones were disconnected, and no mutual acquaintance could locate him.

Sight of Ali came to me during an aimless stroll at Devon Street. My feet careened towards him, his eyes looked delighted, and his hands -warm and stout as ever. Ali informed me that he had divorced Maheen, that her petulance was getting extremely taxing for his curt tolerance, and at present, he is contemplating a new clothing business of his own.

On my inquiry about Jolly bhai, he replied with a wicked droll, and primed me with the most distressing, astonishing, and scandalous news I had heard.

His levity actually left me stunned.

But prior to my denouement, it is pertinent to narrate to my reader, the tale of my first summer in Chicago, the summer of 2000.

This most innocuous of tales contain chronicles of unflinching strength, and remorseless adversity, of ceaseless love, and callous selfishness.

We were a group of six international students in our first summer in U.S.A, hoping to collect the colossal sum we needed for next semester’s tuition, and best way to accomplish the task, we were told, was to drive cabs in the city of Chicago.

We succeeded in the two-week long training course needed, and joined the assembly of cabbies in Chicago, a cadre embracing every color or race, legal or illegal.

My accommodation was with a distant cousin in an apartment close to downtown, he was an immigrant doctor driving cabs, attempting to succeed in his USMLE exams, and in my second week of stay, results for his third attempt arrived in another failure. He decided to pack up his bags and move to Canada, where his application for immigration was already accepted, and I had to soon trace another lodging.

The predicament was discussed in our regular gatherings in Ghareeb-Nawaz - the cheapest desi eatery in Chicago - and a place of daily assemblage for desi cabbies of every possible desi origin.

It was during a lunch there, that Jolly bhai’s contagiously frolicsome laughter lured our tired heads, and there he was in his convivial mien, conversing lucidly in pidgins of English, Urdu, and Punjabi. He comprised the initial introduction with us, and created our acquaintance with others.

His wheatish complexion, wispy unkempt hair, long nose with a tip confirming gravity, and short portly body, somehow gave him an amiable aura; smiles drizzled through his protruding but lucent eyes – beneath his sobering spectacles - gaiety even sprinkled through his dense moustache. His wit rarely seemed to fail in educing unrestrained mirth.

One gaze at him, and the source of his cognomen, Jolly, was apparent.

During one of those lunches Jolly bhai invited me to a corner, curved his arms around my shoulders, and furtively ideated -"yar, currently all my rooms are rented out, but if you don’t mind, you can stay in my room with me for a measly $200 a month."

I contemplated my options, and after finding none, agreed to his offer.

Next afternoon, I was dropped with my stuff right in front of his house; located on one of the small streets crossing The Devon Street: the desi hub of Chicago.

The house looked like it is carved out of cardboards; like it might not fall, but strong winds would convincingly tilt it in all kinds of directions. The walls had shades of mocha speaking of lusters of mahogany a few life times ago. Entrance was ostensibly guarded by a small iron door, and visible through it was the piazza: large area of sward with profuse amount of green bushes, carping of housekeepers busy and blasé.

It was surrounded by an eclectic neighborhood, an oriental market was quarter of a mile up north, a Jewish commune right at the backside, and off course Devon Street a mile down the road. And a saunter a few miles either way would reveal Kalla, Mexa, and Gora ghettos sprawled all around.

I was told to walk into the dark alley inside the house, open the first door on my right, climb up the narrow stairs up to the second floor, and hop in the first room I see there.

The room had a pale brown carpet, a white cotton sheet covering a large part of the carpet, a green pillow on the sheet, and laying on the carpet was room’s only piece of furniture: a telephone. The walls were painted ecru, and on my left, hung on the wall, was a picture of an old woman with lines of grace dignifying her smile.

It is hard to imagine a room more modest and humble in its decoration.

It opened into a living room, furnished by a reclining chair and an antiquated television set. On the other end of living room was another bedroom, kitchen, and a bathroom, and attached to kitchen was the third and last room of the floor.

Three families and a single guy tenanted the house.

Basement was occupied by moulana sahib’s family. Even though he drove a cab and I never saw him preaching, his bearded face and his posture implicated everyone into calling him moulana sahib, a source of pride for him; he lived with his burkha-clad wife and two burkha-clad young daughters.

On the first floor lived a Greek family of six loud kids and their louder and more obnoxious parents.

On the second floor, in the room adjacent to the bathroom, lived colonel sahib, with his wife and two young daughters; and Ali was the single guy living in the room attached with the kitchen.

Ali was two years older than me, and had an obvious muscular strength revealing long hours spent lifting heavy weights, he loved talking - ribalding - and was at a constant look out for girls, preferably, in fact definitely; the ones holding the most coveted ’ hara patta’: the green card.

He came to States six years ago from Lahore, after completing his intermediate – which in U.S.A is equivalent to high school - currently he was working two jobs, in a submarine in the morning, and at a clothing store in the evenings.

For the comfort of non-Chicago residents, I must explain here, that this is not a submarine which swims covertly through the depths of the ocean, but a chain of fried chicken stores abundant around downtown and other populated areas of Chicago, predominantly owned by Desis and Arabs, and generally serving Chicago’s African-American resident’s peculiar culinary inclination towards chicken wings.

The clothing boutique he worked at, was again owned by a desi, and classified at their distinct styling for African-American taste, Ali’s job there was to stand outside and lure the homiez inside the shop.

His glib with me usually initiated with -“yar I saw this desi girl today sitting on this black dude’s lap kissing him shamelessly; dude I’m telling you, it’s disgusting," and concluded with -“yar wanna visit this desi party this Saturday night, I promise you dude hottest chicks of the town."

Colonel sahib was a prim, taciturn of a person, with a magpie of a wife: garrulous and pretentious. He was in his late thirties, was more than comfy in his army role, got into an argument with a senior, and aggravated by his wife’s nag for moving to America; resigned, packed his bags, burned his ships, and migrated.

A few days in the Promised Land, opened their eyes about the meretricious prospects of their reveries.

Colonel sahib woke up early every morning, walked around the whole of Devon Street asking for work, which he soon found at a grocery store but was fired the next day for lack of job-related skills. His efforts for next few weeks were futile, and in the mean time Jolly bhai had arranged for his willing wife, our bhabhi, to work at a subway store.

The first night she came back from work, was a plangent wail of incessant tears, to Jolly bhai she groused -“bhai, in Pakistan I never had to wash a single dish, army provided us servants, chauffeurs, anything we needed, and look at what I’ve become here, these kalla people, no manners, no etiquette, we must go back to Pakistan," and then, solipsistically to her husband -“sunye jee bohat hogia, we should go back to Pakistan, I can’t take this slave-like life any longer, ye bhi koi zindagi hai bhala.”

Jolly bhai palliated -“don’t worry bhabhi, it’s hard to adjust in the beginning, but for the sake of your daughters and husband, you will have to struggle initially, and I promise you, soon things will get much better," and then colonel sahib, vexed and peeved, commiserated with a petulant tongue -“Pakistan mein chora kia hai, now we have to make it through here, no matter what.”

Litanies of the same essence now confabulated daily at Jolly house’s powwows.

I kept insisting on Jolly bhai that he should encourage them to go back to Pakistan, as to my juvenile mind, their life would still be much better there, but his words were -“beta now that they have taken the first step, they should not quit, and it is just initial few years, then things always gets better, look at me I had nothing when I came here in 1986, now I have a house in the most lucrative land of the town, my own car, my own cab, and I help my whole family back in Pakistan;" but my pessimistic soul could not be sated from his comforting words, and I replied -“I don’t think so Jolly bhai, they will always be working in grocery stores, things might get a little better, but it will be more of a case of getting used to it."

And well! His rickety jalopy! Was an 88’ Camry which created it’s own versions of the fifth symphony every time it moved - or what should be called a consistently inconsistent flow of jerky movements - but he loved his car, had conferred it with the eternal epitome of love: Anarkali; I could actually sense a lover’s glow in his eyes every time they set on it.

With time, my admiration for Jolly bhai increased tremendously.

Before sleeping every night, he called home back in Pakistan, and talked to his mother -maan jee, his two brothers, and four younger sisters. His mother always seemed to have a hard time listening to him, but not once did I see him irritated, and every time after hanging up the phone, he would stand in front of his mom’s picture and talk a little more, and then go to sleep. Later I found out that most of the money he earned was spent on financing different sorts of entrepreneurship for his brothers in Pakistan, and to arrange dowries for his sisters’ future marriages.

But there was one bane of his life, the jewel he desired the most, and no matter how hard he tried to obtain it, the ravenous desire of every illegal in the U.S.A, again a ’hara patta’, eluded him.

His deepest regret was he didn’t follow the farmer’s way, when every illegal in late 80s was capturing a green-card pretending to be a farmer; while performing absolutely no farmer’s work as required by the law, but by paying a forger paltry sum of $500.

Jolly bhai traversed the road less traveled by, and tried his luck later through Lulac’s case.

During early 90s, Clinton’s administration offered citizenship to illegal residents of America since1982 or afore. Even though Jolly bhai’s buoyant feet were set on American soil in 1986, but he transgressed by forging letters and envelops from Pakistan, revealing stamps dated from late 70s and early 80s, and through some of his merchant friends, got receipts of purchases made on his name during that transient era of gypsy consumerism. His I.N.S interview was successful, and to Jolly bhai’s utter delight, he was told, it’s only a matter of few weeks before he could enjoy the unrestrained freedom of an American resident.

Since that day, everyday around 2 o’clock Jolly bhai was home checking his mail, he did eventually get his work permit and traveling documents, but up till the last time we talked -some time in late 2004- that most craved of mails - retaining a green card - hadn’t graced his mailbox yet.

One night on my way back from work, I got his call, and he asked me to visit him at an Italian restaurant close to downtown.

There I found him sedentary in a remote spot, in the most morose and melancholic of poses imaginable. In front of him was a strawberry cake, rich in cream, with a sole yellow candle lambent atop. He informed it was his Guria’s birthday, and sensing my perplexity he revealed: Guria was the long lost - now married, and a mother of two children - love of his life, the sole reason he has not married yet up till his mid thirties.

This flame of love was singed in his then lonely heart six years ago, when he met and helped this recently moved family from Pakistan, on a visit visa, to settle down. They had two young sons and two older daughters, and the eldest daughter was a few years younger than Jolly bhai.

To Jolly bhai’s beatific eyes, she held the most refulgent smile and a fragrant heart. His devotion and love to her was obvious to the family, and equally reciprocated by the amorous Guria of his life; he succored her family in many obsequious ways, drove them in his Anarkali to vast corners of the States, but two years later, her father decided to marry her to a guy richer and holder of a blue passport, and in Jolly bhai’s charred versify:

"Beta Hasan, in life, I’ve encountered many a tragedy with a smile, but yearn of a lost soul, ache of a trampled heart, stamped me with brute of a force, and shook the inner cores of my resolve. My discontented heart found its only solace in the solitude of my cab, and in these interminable freeways of Chicago; so I drove, and drove, and drove, with throbs of anguish, and seemingly ceaseless terrain of tears, that sentiment of betrayal spoke louder than a world of agonies combined."

And like most eternal and ethereal tales of love, the flames that never blazed at their utmost glory - the ephemeral ones - never died.

Then he digressed with his other undying love –“I understood the reason of my torment was not an individual, it was not Guria, or her father, but money and status, and since that day I have had an insatiable desire for money; I have worked, and worked, and worked; and I am telling you beta, today, this dollar is the most precious entity in the world, it bestows you with all the respect and status you need, and without it, not your very own damn blood gives a fucking care."

And I’m sure, most of my readers will concur, that love of moolah, once kindled in a heart, is the most perpetual of ’em all.

On our way back, with a pensive look in his eyes, Jolly bhai pondered -"yar I think this country is only for guys like Ali, sad souls like me, even among all the crowd and hoopla around, just keep aging lonelier;" and I replied -" yeah! Talk about PBCD, the Pakistani borne confused -as hell- desis, guys like Ali walk with Muslim stamped on their forehead, but can hardly resist brushing their groin in clubs, they want a virgin wife, but can not wait a day to loose their own." Jolly bhai smiled a petite smile -"yeah but don’t forget how hard he works, almost eighty hours a week," he said -"its for young people like you and Ali, with ambition and hopes of a celestial American future, of reaching the sky; our generation is old and tired, stale and stuck, guys like me get married to their cabs, or their grocery stores, twelve hours a day, seven days a week, no weekend parties, no holiday vacations for us; dawns and dusks hold no peculiar memories, only relentless blurs of bright and gloom."

With dreary minds, we entered in complete darkness, the desi world of Devon street: the world of Ruby jewelers, and Kababish eateries, Bollywood video shops, and Shalimar mithaes.

A world so familiar. And yet so alien.

A desi bazaar. Or perhaps, the desi ghetto.

The following days passed by routinely, I remained immersed in my cab and books, and Jolly bhai absolved in his cab twelve to sixteen hours a day.

Two weeks before my vacations ended, I came home to the sight of Ali sitting in the living room with a desi girl, being spoon fed kheer from her tender hands; he sat there tittering and felicitously smiling, and introduced me to her name: Maheen, a comely girl of big brown eyes and chocolate skin, a slight hint of corpulence, and obviously flabbergasted by this sycophant’s varnish ways.

Colonel sahib had found work in a submarine store, and their family now looked kind of settled in their ways.

I hardly ever saw moulana sahib or his family.

Once I went in the basement with Jolly bhai to fix a switch, it was a big hall with almost the whole of its left half occupied by a myriad of pipes clinging through its roof, and the right half was furnished by two queen sized beds. There was no carpet. An oven, a modicum of spices and groceries, and a medium size refrigerator lying on the right most corner of the hall could be nominated as kitchen.

This wont be no penury or privation in the Pakistani third world dictionary, but the closest I had been to it.

Jolly bhai was invidiously furious at them for not increasing the rent from $400 a month to $500, and they obediently promised they will from next month.

Ali told me he had known Maheen for three months now, and in his -as always- delightful narration –“Dude she is wild for me, has her own apartment, and above all, an American citizen, jackpot yar jackpot." Five days before I left, he moved out with her.

Ali’s room was immediately rented out -to the shock of all- an African-American guy named Clint. The guy looked like in his late twenties, tall and muscular, a smooth talker with an amusing smile. He was a cab driver himself and Jolly bhai had known him for a while. Colonel sahib was not particularly happy with his arrangement, but he had promised to use the back door mostly, and I don’t think Jolly bhai could ever refuse the upgrade from $300 of Ali to Clint’s $500 a month.

I didn’t really get a chance to get acquainted with him that well, and on 26th of august, I left Chicago, moved through greyhound – neat busses, but their squalid stations and callous customer service could put the ones in Pakistan to shame - back to my university in Michigan.

I had accumulated almost $3000, which insured 60% of my tuition for the fall semester, and the rest was paid through credit cards – a prismatic vista of visa and master, discover and express, that I had already accumulated in my first year in States; even though as a student, I was not legally authorized to obtain any sort of credit, but their booths in our university cheerfully told us to put citizen in the required task and revel in the infinite benevolence of credit cards.

I got busy in taxing and bustling life of university, but kept in touch with Jolly bhai through our mobiles from time to time, and later from Eid to Eid.

Four years later, in January 2004, his mother at last succored him into marrying a 21-year-old girl in Karachi, and six months later Jolly bhai managed to fly her to Chicago.

I congratulated him on phone, bhabhi sounded sweet and young, and he spoke of happiness and excitement.

Jolly bhai, even after his marriage – and to the dismay of many - kept working twelve-hour shifts. He now had the second floor all to himself and bhabhi, and had asked moulana sahib to empty the basement, and rented it to Clint.

Colonel sahib moved out with his family to an apartment, they were both now working in different food stores, bhabhi at a subway, and colonel sahib at a grocery store; their daughters were in high school and working at a k-mart. They were now actually planning to own a grocery store.

Ali had gotten married to Maheen, had a daughter named Alina, and was now a proud holder of a green card.

I, well, graduated in 2004, but could not locate a proper stable job, and -like most of my friends- got hired by a desi recruitment firm, which sends me to short term projects in various companies all around U.S.A.

And my -this post-modern professional nomad- most recent chore brought me back to the city of Chicago, to the Jolly house, to Devon, and co-incidentally to Ali.

Which at last brings me the finale, to Ali’s words of discomfiture:

“Dude don’t you know, I guess you are the only one," he said, "Jolly bhai’s child, when delivered, was black, not desi kala, but kalla black, with curly hair, flat pakora nose, thick fat lips. I was there in the hospital, everyone thought it was a mistake, that the child is not her, but doctors and reports approved it," he added -"It must have been that black dude living in the basement. Poor jolly bhai, no body knows now where he is, he left Chicago in his Anarkali next day, bhabhi left for Pakistan soon after. You know, I kept insisting on him quit working that much, spend time with family, but he never cared. His family back home demanded too much off him.”