Serenade to the Sleepless

Lahore.

Such a multifaceted city. Such an enigma.

A perfect juxtaposition of opulence and impoverishment. Pot-holes and wide, open roads. Gleaming cars and rickety rickshaws. Diamonds and glass beads. Forced, shrill laughter and throaty chuckles. Gentle simplicity and crass affluence. Early divorces, and long-term love affairs. Dark-eyed babies and sodomy. Urdu, English and Minglish. Corruption and philanthropy. VVIP’s and activists. Fresh jasmine and adultery. Dancing girls and Food Street. Doodh-patti and road-side golgappas.

Lahore…a city in over-drive, like a sexed teenager just discovering the thrill of a first kiss – and then fantasizing through the night about the next, thousand others.

Lahore – the Garden of the Mughals – with its fast-fading historic architecture, only to be replaced swiftly by a new-age, shallow veneer of gloss and pomp.

A city which truly never sleeps, and whose days and nights stand divorced like two Siamese twins…for even though they are one, they are poles apart.

During the day, the city’s chinks lay revealed, and at nights, dark shadows lurk…hissing like hungry snakes.

Perhaps the only thing that remains constant in this city, this urban jungle, is the way the moon rests against the smog-filled, ink-black sky.

Whoever said the sun and moon look exactly the same no matter which part of the world one is? Such a misleading notion!

For both the sun and the moon take up different personalities as they stretch out their rotund frames against different skies around the world.

In India, for instance, the moon resembles a giggly idli, while in Taipei, a fragile salver, in Africa the tip of an elephant’s husk. And in Lahore? A wobbly golgappa waiting to be swiped and popped into the mouth, whole – Lahori-style.
And it was on one such full-moon Lahori night that a very special little boy was born to two very proud (and much in love) parents: Shahid and Shireen.

Weighing a mere five pounds, with tiny pink toes and fingers that curled inward, eyes clasped tightly shut, and a small back the width of a bar of soap, ‘Munna’ came as a blessing to the young couple’s lives as they’d been desperately trying to have a son.

Prior to Munna being born, Shireen had conceived two healthy girls; Ayesha (aged seven) and Rani (aged six).

Where Shahid was light-skinned, stocky (slightly chubby around the waist) with light eyes, a round Pathani nose and fleshy, gardener-looking hands, Shireen in comparison to her husband was the exact opposite.

Of Kashmiri origin, she was somehow several shades darker than Shahid. Her skin colouring had a lovely sheen to it, which almost glowed in the sun. She had large, deep-set dark eyes, a full mouth and a sprinkle of beauty spots on her cheeks, chin, upper lip and neck. Her hair, which fell all the way till her slender hips, was oft braided, or at times, set in a bun.

The pressure to conceive a son by her relatives (especially her mother-in-law) was overwhelming, and perhaps this is why Shireen had given birth to two girls instead of a boy.
Subconsciously, Shireen was probably rebelling.

But one evening, Shahid had whispered a poem in Shireen’s ear. He had written it the night before, for her.

On a crinkled sheet of paper, in child-like handwriting (which scrawled outwards), the simple little Urdu poem read:

“Our hearts, like two wild doves,
Took flight together,
Into the summer sky,
As we pulled each other close,
To be enveloped within,
A warm embrace…”

And beneath a few stars and satellites, they took each other in, woman and man, yin and yang.

The seed, that night was planted, and after nine months it would eventually blossom into a little sapling with tiny pink toes and fingers that curled inward, eyes clasped tightly shut, and a small back the width of a bar of soap.

Shahid worked as a labourer in the city and every morning at 8am he’d sit on a pavement in Gulberg with scores of other labourers – like himself – and wait for work. But work was never consistent, and therefore, the meals weren’t either.
On really bad days, Shahid would make his way to Data Darbar to avail a plate of free food – which was oft distributed there for the impoverished and the homeless.

Shahid hated going to Data Darbar. He was a man with immense dignity. Not arrogance, but he just couldn’t stand the thought of borrowing money or taking favours from anyone. Because that, secretly, made Shahid feel less of a man. The more debt he’d be in, the more worthless he’d wind up feeling.

But if work would not find him, Shahid couldn’t possibly go back home to his wife and young children empty-handed.
With his shoulders squared, and his light brown eyes troubled, Shahid would cycle all the way from Gulberg to Data Darbar…all the while thinking of ways he could better his and his family’s circumstances.

But with the political bedlam in the country and the escalating price of flour, Shahid was left with little choice but to continue being hopeful, persevering and resilient.

And so, every morning as he’d sit on his haunches on the pavement with the rest of his peers, looking on, with hungry eyes at the privileged lot who’d whiz by in their cars – their windows pulled up…cut off from the outside world.
Cut off from Shahid’s world.

One morning, as the labourers lolled about, cursing the country’s leaders with a generous dose of expletives (whilst sipping on small glasses of doodh-patti), a massive Pajero roared down the road, nearing close to the pavement, where the labourers sat.

Some of them scurried up, their eyes hopeful…expectant.

But just as soon as the Pajero had neared towards them, it sped off down the road - its silencer farting mini clouds of black smoke into the already dense air.

“Eh, motherfucker…” said Yakoob, a long-legged, dark, lean man in his forties.

For some reason Shahid found the entire scene rather amusing. Or perhaps he was just delirious from playing the constant waiting game. But he rolled his head backward, slapped his knee and laughed uncontrollably.

Yakoob grinned, his tobacco-stained teeth and grey gums making a brief appearance. And then, swiping a resting matchstick from the back of his ear, Yakoob stuck it between his thin lips, letting it dangle from the side. He chewed the end slowly, thoughtfully.

“Motherfuckers, sisterfuckers…all of them, ALL of them. Our time will come, just you watch…these haramis will get it where it hurts, good and proper. They won’t know what hit them”, Yakoob went on.

“You’re too optimistic brother”, replied Shahid (who was by now flushed in the face from laughing so hard), “The system will never change, our circumstances will never change unless we become cold-blooded criminals, slit throats and steal to feed our families. You think the government gives a shit about us? Get real.”

“Maybe so, but I’d rather be optimistic about the future, I’d like to give this wretched country the benefit of the doubt. If I don’t, I’ll lose my mind and throw myself infront of a speeding train brother…infront of a speeding train…”

And then, hitching up his kameez, Yakoob pointed to a long gash that stretched all the way from his hip and curved upwards to his slim, bony, lower back.

It was a thick, slug-like, chocolate brown gash that gleamed beneath the sun.

Reaching out in horror, Shahid gently touched Yakoob’s choppy, healed stitches.

“Brother…”, Shahid said, his voice betraying emotion, “What compelled you to do this…”, he let his question trail, partly because he was too afraid to hear the truth.

Lifting his eyes to meet Yakoob’s, Yakoob shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. There was pain in his detachment. So much pain that it had settled into a numb bitterness.
The kind that is impossible to shake off. The kind which takes years of loving and re-conditioning to be done with, for good.

“I needed the money. You think I can make a living here, sitting and waiting on this damned pavement? I have five daughters to marry off. The eldest, Rabia, the light of my life…I’d do anything for her…” Yakoob answered, his eyes turning misty, but only briefly, “I needed money for her dowry…I was, desperate. Very desperate. I’d heard of a man who paid for kidneys. You have to go through the right people to get to him, he operates undercover. Anyway, so I got a few leads and went to him. The operation was excruciating. I don’t think the bastard even knew how to operate. The anesthesia didn’t work. At one point, while I was lying on the operating table, in the dark, musty room, I thought, if only I could see Rabia’s face – just one time…I really thought I was going to die. I felt like a fool. But by the grace of God, it was over soon enough. After a few hours, all stitched and bandaged up, I was ushered out of the man’s house like a leper. My pocket was full of a wad of notes though. That comforted me. Knowing, that I would not arrive home, empty-handed. You know, the poor, in this country? They pay a hefty price for their ignorance, and their hunger, almost every day…”

Wiping away the few tears which had sprung from his eyes, with the back of his hand, (before they made their way down to his moustache) Shahid was overcome with grief.

“Save the tears, brother, save the tears…” Yakoob said looking over at Shahid and patting him on the back momentarily, “Our day of salvation is bound to come…”

“In the form of another one of those fucking Pajeros?” Shahid retorted.

Yakoob laughed heartily, clutching his stomach. Suddenly, a Honda Civic turned the bend, making its way to the pavement of labourers who stared at it – their eyes, saucer-shaped and encouraged.

“Dekh leh…”, Yakoob said, grinning at Shahid – his eyes dancing, “Salvation is here!”

And with that, Yakoob sprung up, dusted his dhoti and walked in quick, long strides towards the Honda which was by now parked near the curb of the road.

Looking at Yakoob, Shahid’s hurting heart suddenly flared with hope.

On another road, yet under the same sun, Munna toddled after his big sister, Ayesha. They were making their way to a busy bazaar area, located a few blocks away from home.

On Ayesha’s head sat a large, red plastic basket filled with trinkets; shiny hair-clip baubles and elastic bands to tie back unruly hair, black hairpins, strips of elastic to slip into new, freshly starched shalwars, polka-dotted head bands, crocodile clips, safety pins and an assortment of multi-coloured parandas.

Ayesha’s uncle had graciously supplied Shahid with the items a few months ago. ‘Chachu’ (as he was addressed by Ayesha, Rani and Munna) made a humble living supplying ornaments and trinkets to down-trodden families to sell at certain spots near and around Gulberg and Liberty Market.

And whatever Ayesha would sell, Chachu would give her a small commission on it. On good days, Ayesha would be able to buy a few rotis (sometimes even, rogni naans!) and ice lollies for herself, Rani and Munna.

Since Rani was an introverted and a painfully shy little girl – who wound up crying away at the drop of a hat lest she felt threatened, frightened or intimidated in any way – Shireen thought it best to let Munna accompany Ayesha on her selling excursions, four times a week.

For Munna, it had been almost a month. And he loved it. Keeping close to his sister’s side, as fast as his chubby little self could carry him, the four-year-old, with his button nose, dark marble eyes, and quiet, excited demeanour clutched onto Ayesha’s dupatta tightly. Stubbornly. Refusing to let go.

Everything about Munna was round. From his tummy, to his toes. From the shape of his head, to his finger nails. From his knees to his soft, jiggly bottom. Like a baby bubble bouncing to and fro in the summer wind.

Ayesha was a cocky little thing. At seven, her poise, maturity and wisdom made people mistake her for being ten.
She was quite the salesgirl – and with her father’s light brown eyes, and earnest face, oft prompted people to roll down their car windows and buy a trinket or two from Ayesha’s large, red plastic basket.

Hopping over spittle, snot, and paansplatter, Munna skipped down the road behind Ayesha. Earlier that morning, Shahid had taken it upon himself to bathe Munna before he set out.
With one hand on Munna’s head (to protect it from bumping into the tap above) and the other holding a bar of soap, Shahid bathed his little offspring gently.

These were the things Shahid lived for. Bathing his son with the onset of a new day filled him with a surge of gratitude that ran through him like warm rivers of gold for the rest of the day.

Massaging Munna’s miniature shoulders Shahid said: ‘My little man, the weight of the world will fall on your shoulders one day…but Baba will always be standing right behind you. You may fall Munna. But throughout our lives we fall. What’s important is how swiftly you get up to continue walking down the beaten track. Never forget that Munna.”
“Okay Baba”, Munna had replied - his eyes squeezed tightly shut (in case soap suds made their way into his eyes).

Smiling, Shahid gave Munna’s head a few tender tousles to get any traces of soap out and turned off the tap. The day had finally begun.

A few hours later, on the road, Munna was enraptured. There was so much to look at, take in, and absorb, that he felt his mind was doing cartwheels.

Past the paan-wallah and his little shop ripe with the scent of supari, saunf and ilachi, past Khan Baba – with his cart full of fresh anwar rathores (a name given for small, plump juicy mangoes), past Muhammad as he prepared aloo chaat (‘spicy’, ‘extra spicy’, ‘verrrrrrry spicy’) from his push-cart, past the book stores with colourful magazines of dusky models in their window displays, past men cradling silver tins, spoons, forks, pots, and pans, past the fair, tall, and wizened Pathans with heavy carpets (in deep shades of red and blue) slung across their shoulders, past the flower shops – misty and flirtatious with the smell of fresh nargis, tube roses, and more, past the candy floss man (oh how Munna loved candy floss!) with his packets of white and pink puffy, sugary surprises, past the beggar women with their large, kohl-rimmed eyes and their babies with even larger, kohl-rimmed eyes, past grumpy old Bibi Rasoola (with a basket full of trinkets just like Ayesha’s balanced on her head), past the doodh-patti-wallah, the toy stores, the bakeries, the tailor shops (with their sewing machines rrrrrrrrrrrrrr’ing merrily away)…and amidst the cacophony of it all – from the angry, shrill car horns, the piercing calls from the plethora of food and juice vendors, and the snippets of conversation tucked away into every packet of ‘quiet’ air space, the city, was abuzz. And so was Munna.

Life was good. Munna’s heart felt like an ocean. Not a tepid one, oh no. A fervent one, comprising of little waves and big waves that overlapped and cut into each other, rising, soaring…higher and higher!

“Munna”, Ayesha suddenly said turning around to face her little brother, “You wait here okay? Don’t move from this spot, I’m just going to cross the road to that black car – see that lady there, with the red hair and gold rings? She wants to buy some of my hair bands. Wait here now, I’ll be back. If you move, no candy floss. I mean it chotu.”

With his thumb wedged deep into his mouth, and his eyes intently focused on Ayesha, Munna nodded solemnly. Pulling him by his free hand, and guiding him to the book shop’s brick wall, Ayesha said: “Now stay here like a good boy.”
Crossing the main road carefully as cars, rickshaws, motorcyclists, cyclists (and a tonga) whizzed by, Ayesha, set her basket down near the wheel of the black car and started handing the lady (with the red hair and gold rings) different hair bands and clips.

Munna watched his sister fixedly, his eyes large and shiny like two round, polished stones, set beneath long, curling eyelashes.

Suddenly, someone in close proximity to Munna, cleared his throat and then grunted.

Turning around, Munna caught sight of a skinny, bearded man sitting cross-legged alongside a wicker basket full of fresh, tubby strawberries.

They glistened.

The man appeared to be in his early thirties. He was dressed in a shabby, dark brown shalwar kameez, with patches of sweat stains that circled underneath his arm-pits.

He was wearing a traditional, deep red, Sindhi cap on his head - which was embellished with small pieces of glass, beads and thick, woven thread which snaked its way around the cap in swirls of green, orange and navy blue.

He grinned slightly, his dark lips parting, revealing even darker teeth, two of which were badly chipped.

His skin was pock-marked and patchy, while his hair was stringy and damp which almost resembled long, miniature claws that sat feasting into his flat forehead.

“Sspock”, Munna’s thumb popped out of his mouth hesitantly, as he looked at the man infront of him with trepidation.

“Arey, come here…”, said the man coaxingly, “Look at these fresh strawberries! I just plucked them this morning. Would you like one?”

And as he finished his sentence, the man swiped a fat strawberry from his basket and bit into it. “Mmmmm”, he mumbled – keeping his eyes fixed on Munna.

“Delicious. Ajao, ajao. Here, let me give you one.”
Staring at the glistening strawberries, with his little thumb in mid-air (near his chest), Munna gingerly walked over to the man, who was by now holding out a strawberry for Munna.

Hoisting her basket back on her head, Ayesha turned around, and looked over at the other side of the road, to the brick wall, where she’d left her little brother.

But he was nowhere in sight. Ayesha’s heart raced.

Crossing the bustling road frantically, at the risk of being hit by a speeding automobile, Ayesha bolted to the book shop.

Looking towards her left and her right, and then, craning her neck to look down the road infront of her, Munna was nowhere in sight.

Ayesha was hysterical.

Running into shops, and stopping pedestrians on the road, Ayesha screamed out Munna’s name in shrill panic. But to no avail.

Hours later, her cries were reduced to soft whimpers. With tear-stained cheeks, blistered feet and a parched throat, Ayesha, returned home.

Standing by the front steel door, with its chipping, azure paint, Shireen clutched Ayesha, her eyes dark, flashing and feral as the little girl relayed what had transpired. Appearing quickly from behind, and just in time, Shahid held his wife swiftly as she collapsed into his arms.

Everything, was suddenly, eerily quiet.

A stillness in the air. The kind of stillness which comes just moments before the rain comes sweeping down, to wash away the fresh sins of an enigma of a city.

The days, weeks and months flew by – like black butterflies in mourning.

But Shahid never stopped searching for Munna - his little baby bubble, with his small shoulders and dimples…bouncing to and fro, in the summer wind.

In Lahore, the impoverished lie awake – night after night. Sleepless, and never serenaded. In truth, they stand as the forgotten ones.

When will they be remembered, if ever?

And as we sleep soundly, cocooned and serenaded sweetly by the shelter of our homes and the warmth of our dreams, they - like moths - swirl and bump into the light of dim lanterns…remaining sleepless, hungry, searching…

Evermore.