‘Sir, I couldn’t take it. We were both crying when the race club’s physician came in. He kicked the three of us out. He said, “Hey, why the hell did you drag this rotting carcass here? You want to kill the other horses too?” ’
The Size of a Nose Ring
When he returned late on another occasion, before Basharat could start scolding him, he started up, ‘Sir, forgive my mistakes! Shit happens. We were going by the Municipal Corporation Building when we saw a black mare. She took off and Balban started running after her. They didn’t stop till we had reached Clifton. The mare finished first, then Balban. Then me, this sinner. The horse’s owner came in fourth. Sir, our horse was running so smoothly it was like cream going down your throat!’
Then he put his whip between his legs and started running, demonstrating how the horse, himself, and the mare’s owner all galloped one after the other in pursuit of the desired object. Mirza Wahid-uz-Zaman Baig started up again, ‘Sir, that man looked at me with, what do you call it, nargisi kofta-like eyes! Then he growled at me even though it wasn’t my horse’s fault. His mare kept turning the whole time to see if our horse was following or not. I asked him, if he cared so much, why hadn’t he controlled his unbridled sankhni?3 An owner’s honour rests in his horse’s hands. As she ran along, she was flirting with my horse. She tested him like you would test a prophet. In the end, he’s a man. He’s not a cold-blooded statue. Sir, I told that what’s-its-name — yes, that cuckold — I said, “Get out of here! Get out! I’ve seen a lot of mares like yours. There’s a vixen just like her in the Karachi Theatre Company. Her whore of a mother still has her wear the sort of nose ring that only virgins wear. The more skanky she gets, the bigger the ring gets.” Sir, hearing this, he stopped being mad. Instead, he asked for the address of the theatre company and the name of the girl. At first, he was spewing one insult after another, and now his throat was getting dry from calling me “master” so many times! He said, “Master, calm down, and eat this paan.” But, I swear, our horse lowered his eyes, stuck his mouth into his nosebag, and started chewing his cud. Sir, it’s something to think about. His mare was quite tall, just like a big, strapping man. But your horse isn’t any taller than you.’
Basharat flew into a rage, ‘Are you a fucking measuring stick? Why is it that “shit happens” every time you’re near the Municipal Corporation Building?’
He folded his hands in supplication and said, ‘Forgive my mistakes. This time shit didn’t happen with your horse but…’
Basharat Haircutting Salon
At last the riddle of the Municipal Corporation Building was solved. At the time, Basharat wanted to change the front of his shop and to expand toward the street, so in order to get approval for his plans he had to go to the Municipal Corporation. And yet his driver was nowhere to be seen. Finally, he grew tired of waiting. At three o’clock, he hired a rickshaw and set off for the Municipal Corporation Building. And what did he see, but right there on the sidewalk, Mirza Wahid-uz-Zaman Baig had spread out a threadbare rug and was shaving a man! He stood out of his line of sight and watched. After shaving him, he cleaned off the soap and stubble from his wrist with the razor, and then he sharpened the razor with a strop laid on his wrist. Then he put his knees on the ground, and from this height, he shaved the man’s armpits. Basharat couldn’t believe his eyes. But when Mirza took a clump of alum and Tibetan talcum powder from his ‘toolbox,’ Basharat started trusting his eyes again. Looking closely at the scene, he saw a sign written on a piece of cardboard near the edge of the rug; in bold and beautiful calligraphy was written the following:
Basharat Haircutting Salon
Main Office
Harchandrai Road
He didn’t think it right to insult him right there in the busy market. Full of anger, he took a rickshaw back to his shop. That night, Mirza brought the kids home from school at seven in the evening. Basharat couldn’t control himself; he grabbed the whip from his hand, and brandishing it threateningly, he said, ‘Tell me the truth, or else I’ll rip the flesh right off of you! Bastard, you’re a barber! Why didn’t you tell me? Everything has been a lie. Everything you’ve said has been a lie. Today I’ll see what kind of liar you are. Tell me the truth — where were you?’ The driver clapped his hands together pitifully and, while shaking, said, ‘Forgive my mistakes! Boss, you’re absolutely right. I swear to the One Beyond Compare, from this day forward I’ll tell the truth.’
So from that day forward, whatever disgrace he experienced was due to his telling the truth. Mirza Abdul Wadud Baig says that it’s relatively better to tell lies and so suffer disgrace and insult than to tell the truth and suffer the same fate. At least then you understand why you’re being punished.
Under Basharat’s cross-examination, the first truth that Mirza revealed was that after finishing up work at the Municipal Corporation Building, he had had to perform a circumcision on Burns Road at four thirty. But the circumcision party was quite late in arriving. And then the boy didn’t want to have anything to do with it. He was an only child and so everyone’s darling. He was eight years old and a little raging bull. His grandfather, Haji Maqsood Ilahi Punjabi, Merchant of Delhi, tried his best to coax him into it, ‘Son, Muslims don’t get scared. There’s nothing to it.’ But the boy was obstinate. He said, ‘You first! You have a long beard too!’
Basharat’s Face Went Red with Anger
Basharat extracted another truth from him under the threat of the whip: his real name was Buddhan. His son, who had graduated from high school, was staunchly opposed both to his name and to his profession. Over and over, he had threatened to commit suicide. He had explained, ‘Son, our ancestors used to have names like this. What’s in a name?’ His son had been furious, ‘Dad, Sheikh Pir [Shakespeare] said just that, but his dad’s name was nothing close to Buddhan. What did he know? If you can’t change anything else, at least change your name.’ So a couple days after that conversation when Mirza had got a job at Eastern Federal Insurance Company, he had introduced himself as Mirza Wahid-uz-Zaman Baig. And the name had stuck. Actually, it was the name of an executive that he had used to shave twenty years ago. That man had died childless. His nephews had taken his property (which he had accumulated through accepting bribes), and he had taken over his name.
Now that the poor guy had begun to tell the truth, he couldn’t stop himself. Mirza Abdul Wadud Baig says that in this day and age to live a life telling the truth 100 % of the time is like building a house but forgetting to mix pebbles into the cement. Mirza, the driver, said, ‘Forgive my mistakes! Now I want to tell the truth in one fell swoop. My family has its self-respect. Thank God I’m not a groom by caste. For a hundred years, my family’s been barbers. God be praised — there are about a dozen in my family. Boss, you know very well that my salary is only half of what we spend on the horse. Seventy rupees disappears like that. That’s why I’m forced into having this private practice. For years, my wife and kids sacrificed meals so that my eldest boy could get through high school. I’ve been cutting Mr Alimuddin’s hair for twenty years. Now there’s nothing left on his head. I just trim his eyebrows. Boss, all the connoisseurs of my art have passed on. Today’s barbers shave people like they’re shearing sheep. My vision’s become weak, but even now I can pare off the excess from a big toe in one motion with my nail-parer. So I begged Mr Alimuddin, and so he hired my son as a clerk at Muslim Commercial Bank. Now my boy says he’s ashamed of me being a barber. He wants me to change jobs. Boss, my father and his father were barbers, not nawabs! I earn my money through sweat and hard work. But, sir, I’ve noticed that people consider those jobs that require hard work to be beneath them. My son says, ‘All the boys from my class have become accountants. They go around jingling the keys to the moneybox. I’m being held back only because of my father’s name. If you don’t stop being a barber, I’m going to cut my throat with your razor.’ Sometimes, late at night, in order to scare his mother he made sounds like a goat being slaughtered. And so the good woman made me promise to find another job. So I had to start being a cart-driver. I haven’t told him I’m still a barber on the side. I never take home my strop, tools, barber’s bag, and stuff because I don’t want him to feel disgraced by me. Please believe me, that’s the reason I’ve used the name Basharat Haircutting Salon. Your name is very auspicious. Forgive my mistakes!’