Halfway to the station, the bus stopped at another small tea-stall, and here a blind man got on. His face was covered with cauliflower-like swellings, and he had a small snub nose. He walked with the help of a stick, and felt his way onto the bus. He could tell which bus it was from a distance by its characteristic sounds. He could also recognize people instantly by their voices, and he liked talking to them. One of his trouser legs was rolled long and the other short. Looking upwards he now sang out in a carefree and untuneful voice:
‘Oh You Who Give, don’t give anyone poverty.
Give me death, but do not give misfortune’
He sang this and lyrics of a similar nature while going around the bus collecting small coins and upbraiding the miserly with a volley of relevant couplets. Rasheed, whenever he travelled on this bus, was one of his more generous benefactors, and the beggar recognized his voice immediately. ‘What?’ he cried, ‘you’ve only spent two nights at your father-in-law’s? Shame, shame! You should spend more time with your wife, a young man like you. Or is that baby who is crying your own – and is that your wife with you here? Oh, Wife of Abdur Rasheed, if you are here on this bus, forgive this unfortunate for his insolence and accept his blessing. May you have many more sons, and all with lungs as loud. Give – give – God rewards the generous…’ And he moved on through the bus.
Meher’s mother blushed furiously beneath her burqa, and then started giggling. After a while she stopped. Then she started sobbing, and Rasheed touched her shoulder gently.
The beggar got off at the last stop, the railway station. ‘Peace to you all,’ he said. ‘And health and safety to all who travel on Indian Railways.’
Rasheed discovered that the train was only a little late, and was disappointed. He had hoped to take a rickshaw and visit his elder brother’s grave which was half an hour away in a graveyard outside this small town. For it was at this station that his brother had met with his death by falling under a train three years ago. Before the news had come to his family, the people of the town had arranged for the burial of his crushed remains.
It was now about noon and extremely hot. They had been sitting on the platform for only a few minutes when Rasheed’s wife started shivering. Rasheed held her hand and said nothing. Then he said in a low voice: ‘I know, I know what you must be feeling. I wanted to visit him too. We’ll do it next time we are here. There was no time today. Believe me, there was no time. And with all this luggage – how could we?’
The baby, resting in an improvised crib of a few bags, continued to sleep. Meher too was exhausted and had dozed off. Rasheed looked at them and closed his eyes as well.
His wife said nothing, but moaned softly. Her heart was palpitating swiftly, and she seemed dazed. ‘You are thinking of Bhaiyya, aren’t you?’ he said. She started sobbing again, and trembling uncontrollably. Rasheed felt a sense of pressure building up at the back of his head. He looked at her face, beautiful even through the veil – beautiful perhaps because he knew it was beautiful.
He spoke again, holding her hand in his and stroking her forehead: ‘Don’t cry – don’t cry – Meher and the baby will wake up – we’ll have left this inauspicious place soon. Why grieve, why grieve, when you can do nothing about it… Look, it could also be the heat. Take your veil off – let the air play a little on your face… We would have had to rush there, and we might have missed the train and have had to spend the night in this miserable town. Next time we’ll make time. It is my fault, I should have left the house earlier. But perhaps I could not have borne the grief of it myself. The bus stopped again and again and we got delayed. And now, believe me, Bhabhi, there is no time at all.’
He had addressed her as he used to do in the old days, using the word for sister-in-law. For she had been his brother’s wife, and Meher had been his brother’s child. He had married her at his mother’s dying behest; his mother could not bear that her infant granddaughter should remain fatherless or her daughter-in-law (whom she loved) a widow.
‘Take care of her,’ she had said to Rasheed. ‘She is a good woman and will make you a good wife as well.’ Rasheed had promised to do as she had asked, and had kept his difficult and binding promise.
10.12
MOST respected Maulana Abdur Rasheed Sahib,
I am taking up my pen to write with much hesitation, and without the knowledge of my sister and guardian. I thought you would want to know how my Arabic was faring in your absence. It is faring well. I am practising every day. At first my sister tried to appoint another teacher for me, an old man who mumbles and coughs and makes no attempt to correct me when I make mistakes. But I was so unhappy that Saeeda Apa discontinued him. You never used to let me get away with any mistakes, and I am afraid I was tearful at times when it seemed I could do nothing right. But you never let me get away with tears either, and did not let me turn to something easier after I had collected myself. I have now come to realize the value of your teaching method, and I miss having to make the effort that I had to when you were here.