Memories of Abid

THE MAGICIAN

I remember the street children of the copper mines. Their pleading eyes and outstretched hands. And I remember the nonchalant manner with which Abid would drop coins into their palms. But first, of course, he would make the coins appear from behind their ears or on their tongues. I remember seeing him on my first day at the copper mines and my fourteen year old mind decided that I was to become a magician.

I knocked on Abid’s rusty old door, bowed my head in front of his piercing eyes and told him I wanted to learn. I did not need to beg. The man simply clapped his hands together and his eyes became kind. “But of course!� He laughed.
And so, every morning I would slip out while the world slept and learn the art of magic. From this eccentric man with age old eyes, I learnt how to make street children forget their troubles for a little while. I learnt that tricks are just a part of the magic. That the real magic lies in the confidence of your manner, the belief in your own magic.

“Magic is about faith� Abid would say as I failed to pull live doves from hats. My training exhausted and exhilarated me. I found magic in everything and then I realized with joy that there was magic in everything. For me, the most magical thing of all was the incredulous smiles of the street children at my first performance.

Abu was angry. For the first time ever, his eyes lit up with emotion. He raged for hours while my mother wept. Why is it that woman turn to tears first? Sarah never does that. Coming back to it, I can almost sympathize with Abu. I had always confused him as a boy. I didn’t have any friends my own age, I would go without food for days and then break down and eat ravenously and I would talk to myself for hours on end. Revolutions would fascinate me while Abu hated change. I suppose, he feared the expense of change as for him, change meant raised food prices. It was clear that my father thought I was strange. He also thought I was useless; I gave away coins to beggars and performed street magic for free for God’s sake!

Mother wept as all mothers do. I called her Ammi; she thought spirits had a hold on me. “Beta,� She would weep, “Why not ask for money for this magic-shagic that you do?� “Ammi,� I would reason, “They’re beggar children! They have no money.�

“Then perform for richer children.�

“They don’t need it.� I would reply, my brother would look up from his book and smile as my mother would continue weeping. Our smile was a symbol of our bond or my brother, too, is one who believes in magic. Calm, slightly reserved is my brother, Ali. A brilliant mind and a composer of poetry. His pen dances across scraps of paper and in mere seconds, he creates beauty. He tried to keep his poetry a secret from Abu but he found out and burnt a great deal of them. “Scoundrels!� Abu would shout, “Lazy dreamers! They worship Ghalib! They can sit and stare at a sunset for hours but they do an honest day’s work grudgingly!� Ammi, of course, wept.

Abid said I was going to have to get used to it and so was my brother. “My son,� He said as he sipped tea, “Why do you expect them to understand?� I shrugged my shoulders and said, “Because they should love me enough to accept me as I am.�

“My dear boy!� Abid laughed, “We live in a mercenary world! Your father and mother have four children they have to feed, the British are on our heads. Look at this Dalhousie fellow, he took Oudh just last week under some Doctrine of Lapse, I think it was. Anyway, the fact is that just because money isn’t the most compelling thing for you doesn’t mean they will understand. Look at you; you perform street magic for nothing. Anyone in this village will be happy to call you a lunatic before they accept that perhaps you want to do it for free.�

I smiled, “They call you a lunatic.�

“Yes, well, I would rather be a happy mad man then a depressed sane one. Look beta, I grew up in a rich house, I was educated, got a job and made lots of money. I realized that I didn’t want any of that after the topic of marriage became a daily conversation in my house. So I left and travelled all over India, doing what I really loved. I performed magic for a pittance, sometimes for free. I have just enough to live on and now I perform for street children. Call me a lunatic but I am happy. No regrets.

I’ll die happy.�

I looked at this man. Based on the events he would often describe to me, he must have been over sixty yet there were barely any wrinkles on his face. His eyes held the world’s knowledge and none of its weaknesses. He sat on his kitchen floor and drank chai out of mugs that were more than twice my age. I knew he would die the happiest man alive.

And so four years passed like this. I was almost never home, performed magic for the street children who loved me, watched the sunset and learnt about life from Abid. “You, my boy,� Abid said once, patting my shoulder, “Are different. You don’t run the race, you stand by and watch others run and then go at your own pace. You’re a magician.� Then he closed his eyes and fell asleep.

Abid died the next day. Unlike the street children, I did not weep at the funeral. My mentor had gone on to the next world with a smile on his face.