CAMEOS OF A GATED COMMUNITY - THE TEACHER

They finally gave me the old scooter. I have been asking for it for almost a year now. It was just lying there in the basement, collecting dust and cobwebs. Yet it took them 12 months to decide to part with it. I always tell my Begum that the ones who have the most are the ones who give the least. The poor - though they have so little - are always ready to share. Look at that cook who works in 675. The one who found me this job of teaching The Holy Qur'an to a bunch of westernized kids who would rather be watching TV or listening to their angrezi songs, or doing whatever they do on their computers. She, the cook I mean, is such a large-hearted woman. As if it were not enough looking after her wastrel son, her daughter-in-law and their four daughters, she has taken it upon herself to care for an old woman abandoned by her family. Looks after her really well too. "She is like my mother Hazrat", she said. She not only shelters her and feeds her, but also buys her new saris during Eid and other occasions. Who does that these days? One's own children have no time or concern for their parents. She was also the one who suggested I ask Sameer Saheb for the scooter. I thought for almost a month before I decided to ask him. You see, I hate asking anybody for any favours. But yes, the scooter would be a great help, especially now that my knees are giving me such trouble. So finally, putting my pride in my empty pocket, I asked Sameer Saheb. He looked a little surprised. "We'll see", he said curtly and that was the end of it.

Sameer Saheb works in some very big company. He travels to all parts of the world and comes backs laden with gifts for his kids. He is spoiling them - no doubt about that…. sometimes, I can hear Sameer Saheb's wife quarreling with her husband on this topic. "Don't give them such expensive gifts", she admonishes her husband. "They will never learn the value of money otherwise…" I tend to agree. Everything within limits, that has always been my policy. Not that I know too much about bringing up children. Begum and I were not blessed with children. My Begum, she loves children. She always wanted a house full of kids, she would laughingly say, in the first few years of our marriage, but after four miscarriages, she resigned herself to her fate. It is Allah's will, I tell her, who are we - mere mortals - to question His wisdom? She remains quiet but her eyes, they speak volumes. The pain and loneliness in her eyes shakes me to the very core of my being. At least I have my work - teaching Arabic in the local madrassa and The Holy Qur'an to children in their homes, but my Begum, she only has her household duties followed by long hours of solitude. I tell her to spend more time in prayers and in reading The Holy Qur'an. She nods her head but I fear, her faith is getting weaker, more tenuous. And that frightens me. That frightens me greatly. There should be no place for doubt in one's faith. "Your faith should be strong, stronger than the mountains…." That's what I tell my students in the madrassa. That's what I tell Sameer Saheb's children too, but I don't think they really care about anything I say. I know for a fact that they don't say their Namaaz, every day. They giggled when I asked them. As if it is some laughing matter. To be honest, I don't really like teaching them, but it is Allah's Word and it is my duty to make them understand it. The pay is good too. More than what I make in the madrassa. And with the way prices are these days, one has to look at ways and means of surviving. Though again, how much do we need? Just the two of us. Three meals a day. Some clothes to wear. The house rent. Some little treats when the heart yearns for them… Like the doll that Begum insisted on buying last month, when we had gone to buy our monthly provisions from Shivaji Nagar. I tried to dissuade her. Made silly jokes. Laughingly told her "This is not your age to play with dolls Begum". But I don't know what came over her. She refused to budge until I bought the doll. It began to get embarrassing. Everyone looking at us strangely. Some of the nudging each other and smiling slyly. Even the shopkeeper was getting impatient. So I paid for it and we came home.

Begum seemed at peace since we got the doll. I was beginning to think that two hundred rupees for peace of mind was a good bargain. But what I witnessed a few days later is making me lose my sleep. I came early from the madrassa one evening and what do I see? Begum bathing the doll and talking to it! I was horrified. I watched her quietly for a long time until I could not take it any more. I slipped out of the house and never mentioned the incident to her. Since then, I have watched her unobserved many times. I have seen her comb the doll's hair, change her clothes, even try to feed her. I have heard her talk to the doll too. Baby talk. Mostly when she thinks I am asleep or not around. I fear she is losing her mind. I should not have bought that doll. I really do not know what to do, where to go, who to speak to…. And as if my mind was not troubled enough, Sameer Saheb's children are troubling me so much! Especially that girl. Coming out in front of me wearing shorts - La haul wala quat! I cast my gaze down, as a good Muslim should. That's when Sameer Saheb's wife walked in. She understood immediately and dragged her daughter inside. There were raised voices then. I could hear snatches of the conversation. The girl refusing to study with me. The mother insisting she does. The boy supporting his sister. And Sameer Saheb trying to calm them all down. I don't know how long I'll have this job. Maybe I will have to give back the scooter too. Just as well. Can't afford the petrol anyway without this job. Begum will miss it though. She enjoyed going our on the scooter. And as if thinking of Begum had conjured her up here, my mobile began to ring. It was Begum sobbing desperately and begging me to come home.

"What's happened Begum?" I asked her, again and again. But got no answer. Only an anguished sobbing that frightened me so much that I did not even wait to tell Sameer Saheb or his wife. I rushed out of their house, and rode like a mad man to my humble abode. A small crowd had gathered in front of my home. Some of them I knew. Some I didn't. They were looking through our window. Peering through our door. Craning their necks to get a view of what was happening inside. I pushed myself through and entered the room. Begum was wailing inconsolably. When she saw me her wails grew louder. I looked around. Everything seemed in order. I looked at Begum more closely. She seemed unhurt too. Except for her distraught eyes, the surma running down her cheeks, her uncombed hair…

"What's happened Begum?" I repeated the question that I had asked her on the mobile.

"I killed her", she mumbled. My blood froze in my veins. What was she talking about? Who had she killed? "Our daughter. Our Munni. I killed her. My carelessness. I left her too close to the fire and I killed her. Oh Allah! What kind of mother am I!" She started wailing again. I looked towards the kitchen and saw the doll, its plastic face disfigured, part of its body charred, its once frilly frock now scorched.

I turned to look at the curious neighbours, all whispering amongst themselves. Suddenly a loud, familiar voice dispersed the crowd. It was the cook. The one who works in 675. She took control of the situation and sent all those people packing home. Then she tried to calm my wife. But to no avail. Finally, she took me aside and told me what I knew I had to do, as kindly as possible.

The van came the next day. And as the doors of the van clanged shut behind my Begum, I felt as if my world had come to an end. She may get better the doctors at the Mental Hospital assured me. But we can't make any promises, they added hurriedly. It is Allah's will, I think. Is my faith getting tenuous too? But if I lose my faith, what else will I have?

CAMEOS OF A GATED COMMUNITY - THE CHOWKIDAR

You pass me by every day, unseeing, unknowing, uncaring. You don't look at my ingratiating smile. You don't see my smart salute. You don't hear the "Good Morning Sir!" that I call out cheerfully, the way we have been trained to. I wonder if you are even aware of my existence? Or if I am just another piece of furniture to you, like the broken plastic chair standing desolately near the gate.

I am educated too, you know. Of course, not as much as you, but I did attend two years of college. My poor parents thought I'd study well and do something with my life. Maybe they dreamt that I would be like you, zooming past in that big, fancy car of yours, talking on the mobile, always, always on the mobile. Well it was not to be, and here I am, miles from my home town, trying to survive. Its a hard life, but I have no complaints. Things are no better where I come from. At least here, I am my own man. Till they get me married of course. My mother tells me they are looking for girls for me in the surrounding villages.

Last night when I went home after my long shift, Raja and Munna - the two who share my room with me - were watching their favourite programme on our small, second-hand TV. True crime stories. I wonder why they find it so fascinating. Me? I like some song and dance. But chalo, I let them watch what they want. Yesterday's episode was gruesome though. A murder re-enacted. For a change, the police had solved it quickly. Don't get me wrong. I have great respect for the police. To be truthful I am a little scared of them too. They can just pick you up and lock you in and who's to know what can happen to you once you are there? Anyway, coming back to yesterday's programme…it was about a rich industrialist murdered in his own house. The Police solved the case in less than a month. It was the chowkidar.

It got me thinking, this programme on TV. I wonder how you would react if I held a knife to your throat?

I wonder if you will finally know my name? Its right there, you know, in block letters, on the name badge that we have to wear every day. But funny how nobody ever bothers to read it. It's always "Hey you, security!". "Oye, Chowkidar!". Or sometimes a plain "Bhaiyya". The last mostly from the ladies.

I wonder if you will notice the wart on my chin that I worry continuously when I am nervous? Just one of those habits we develop and which refuse to leave us for life.

I wonder if the cold feel of the knife on your throat will make you sweat. I think I would like to see that. The high-and-mighty in his air-conditioned car sweating like an ordinary man. I would like to smell the fear on you - must surely be different from those foreign perfumes that you use every day. But most of all, I would like to see the terror in your eyes - your unseeing eyes.

Will your eyes focus on me then? Will you finally look at me? See me? Recognize me? Register my presence? Acknowledge my existence?

Coming back to yesterday's programme on TV - the Police were confused about the motive for the murder. Nothing was stolen from the house. I wonder if all that the murderer wanted was some recognition? Maybe he was trying to regain the identity and the sense of self-worth that had been robbed from him? Maybe…just maybe…