The Lampless Aladdin
He joined his hands in supplication, sat down, and then started to massage his knees very fervently. The moment Basharat’s countenance softened, Mirza Wahid-uz-Zaman Baig told another truth: ‘It pains me to see cuts on your face every morning. Domestic razors take off more skin than they do hair. You always have stubble. Forgive my mistakes! Your sideburns are off too. They look like a clock’s striking nine twenty.’ He requested that he be allowed to shave him before currying the horse. He could also cut the kids’ hair. Also, his speciality dishes were Bihari biryani, Bombay biryani, chicken qorma, and shahi tukre. And his deg halim and dhubri firni4 were so good that you wouldn’t be able to stop licking your fingers. He could cook pulao and zardah for a big party of up to 150 in under three hours. Basharat was a gourmand. And like the English saying goes, the way to a man’s heart goes through his stomach.
He began to like the barber
He also offered that after currying the horse, he would massage Basharat’s father’s feet. At night, he would massage Basharat. There is a vein on your neck where your spine starts, and if you have it pressed just right with a delicate, warm touch, then all your pain goes away. You can’t see it. His teacher, the late Laddan Mian, had used to say that a masseur sees through the tips of his fingers. His fingers are his pain binoculars; as soon as they touch someone, they know where the pain is. Then Mirza Wahid-uz-Zaman Baig enticed Basharat with the idea of giving him an almond oil head massage. And after that, he would press his thumbs gently into Basharat’s temples, and then using both his hands like birds’ wings, he would drub his skull up and down so that Basharat felt as though sleep fairies were descending slowly and gently from the clouds in layer upon layer of fluffy balls of carded cotton — so slowly, so gently, so slowly, so gently.
Basharat was exhausted after a long day. As he heard this, his eyes closed on their own.
Then the crafty bastard threw the knockout punch: ‘God be praised! Your little one is almost three months’ old. The younger he is when circumcised, the quicker his scabs will heal.’
Basharat’s face bloomed like a rose, ‘My gosh, Khalifaji. Why didn’t you say so earlier? Why were you so secretive? It turns out you’re a real Rustam!’
At this, he got out the horseshoe to show Basharat, the one that he had been given as a token of appreciation for the role of Rustam’s horse.
Mirza Wahid-uz-Zaman Baig became Khalifa. Or, Aladdin the Ninth. From then on, he worked less and bragged much more. Mirza Abdul Wadud Baig called him the Lampless Aladdin. Basharat’s father agreed to call him Khalifa (instead of Aladdin) on the condition that if they got a new driver or any other servant in the future, they would call him Khalifa as well.
6.
The Snake Charmer in Front of the Horse
Gradually, Maulana, Khalifa, the horse, and Basharat’s father, in this order of importance, became accepted as members of the family, and this merger became so complete that the horse’s lame leg too was then considered an inseparable part of the family. Thanks to the horse, Basharat’s father again had a say in household matters. I’ve used this phrase idiomatically because otherwise his say counted for shit. There comes a time in people’s lives when all they do is meddle, and this they consider to be their good work. Some people spend their entire lives counting others’ mistakes and correcting their follies, I mean, they waste their lives meddling in others’ business. They never have any time to think about themselves.
When the Day of Resurrection came, Shaikh had empty hands
He called himself a merchant, but he had only empty hands
Everyone in the house took turns petting the horse. His diet was probably the same as before, but from all the love he was getting, now his mane and coat shone with such a brilliant lustre that glances and flies slipped right off. The kids fed him their own sweets on the sly and, like him, tried to wiggle their ears. Now, while playing soccer, some kids started kicking goals backwards with their heels. During poetry contests, when one boy ran out of ammunition or when he messed up while reciting a poem, the opposing team (as well as the audience) would neigh as one big group. Basharat’s father would grab his harmonium and start singing to the horse whenever he got good news or whenever a dark cloud passed in front of the sun. He said that whenever he played well, the horse would instinctively start wagging his tail like a fly-whisk. I have never doubted the veracity of his claims — not before, not now. The only surprising thing was that Basharat’s father had never noticed which part of the body the horse had used to show his appreciation for his art!
Balban was everything to Basharat’s father: a plaything, a substitute for a son, a companion in solitude, and a pillow to cry on. Before the horse had arrived, Basharat’s father would groan like a creaky door about his rusted joints, whether he was in actual pain or not. If someone happened to pick up something heavy in front of him, he would groan as though he himself were dying under its weight. If someone asked him how he was doing, he would raise his right hand toward the heavens and shake it, as though he were shaking a juggler’s drum back and forth; then he would cough for three or four minutes in a range of pitches. It seemed like he had begun to enjoy his bad health. Some virtuosos of the sickbed consider it insulting to the high status of their disease to admit that they feel better. Basharat’s father had great willpower. Whenever he started to feel better, he would forcibly make himself feel worse again. You’ve never seen him, but you must know old people who talk about their pet ailments just like cricket batsmen, having got out with ninety-nine runs, talk about their incomplete centuries, or how village women talk about their labours and deliveries — that is, each time with new commentaries and new regrets. Before Balban came, Basharat’s father always had a prickly temper. People had stopped asking after his health. They left him to himself. No one had the courage to interfere in the joys of ailing.
But now his mood not only moderated but also expanded. He told each and every person about the newest symptoms of his sicknesses. He told them the details of his pleuritis, his osteoarthritis, and his chronic constipation. He would stroke his stomach and talk about his flatulence and the grumbling of his bowels, and he would accompany this with the corresponding sound effects. He would list the names of the neighbours who had died in his dreams and then advise them to sacrifice a goat immediately. Sometimes he told about how his phlegm would remain so viscous for three days that only after shaking his head quite vigorously a dozen times would he be able to spit it out into the spittoon. Back in those days, the most ignorant people in Bihar Colony — including the street-sweeper women and Professor Abdul Quddus — knew what viscosity5 meant (and knew its examples too). Mirza used to say that Basharat’s father’s diseases had germs that spoke Arabic; English medicine couldn’t do anything for them.