Sometimes Qibla would point to this or that piece of ‘seasoned’ wood, and his manner was so respectful that it seemed as though the board in question had just been brought for his own special approval from Noah’s Ark in the foothills of Mount Ararat. He would stroke fondly a beam of Burmese teak, ‘Now, how old do you think he is? He’s just a kid. No more than eighty years old. There’re trees in the Irrawaddy forests that have withstood typhoons for one hundred and fifty years. Sir, that’s seasoned! This one’s lived through hundreds of rainstorms, and it’s floated down seven rivers. On top of that, a crocodile peed on it.’ He pointed to a spot. ‘You see, he pissed right here on this lotus-eyed burl. If you’ve a board that a crocodile has pissed on, no termite or fire can touch it. It’ll be with you till Judgement Day.’ So once Khwaja Abdul Majid, who had come to buy wood for a writing desk, asked, ‘Dogs pee on electric poles, but crocodiles pee on trees?’ He was going to say something else when Qibla angrily interrupted him, ‘Not at all! During Muharram, crocodiles drink water from tin glasses tied to water stalls, and then they dry their dicks with dirt clods while walking down the street — just like your glorious father. Got it, sir?’
He was a twenty-four-hours-a-day volcano. One day Haji Muhammad Ishaq, the leatherworker, came to buy some rosewood. Qibla sang the high praises of all his wood, but he really loved rosewood. He would say, ‘Shah Jahan used rosewood for his peacock throne. People today don’t know how to appreciate it. But it’s so lovely! The more you use it, the more you realize how great it is. I was born on the same rosewood charpoy that my grandfather was.’ Qibla thought of his own glorious arrival in the world as an honour for not just his grandfather but also the charpoy.
Haji Muhammad Ishaq replied, ‘This wood has too many burls.’ After an interminable pause, Qibla smiled. He stared at Mr Haji’s beard and said, ‘The one thing I’ve noticed about rosewood, bronze pots, teenage girls, and scraggly beards is that the more you stroke them, the more they glow. The true mark of quality rosewood is that it renders saws, carpenter’s planes, and drills useless, and hands stiff. It’s the furthest thing from pine. With pine, just tap a nail in, and it splits in half. But there’s one thing about pine. Freshly cut pine smells so good — just like the forest does. On those days I’m going to cut pine, I don’t bother with cologne.’
Seeing Qibla’s mood improve, Haji Muhammad Ishaq felt emboldened. He said, ‘This does look like quality wood, but it doesn’t look seasoned.’ This lit a fire under Qibla. ‘Seasoned?’ he exclaimed. ‘What do you know about seasoning? If you’re only concerned about seasoning, then go over to the mosque where they wash the corpses. That’s seasoned wood. Do you want that? Should I bring that for you?’
Honour and Advance — Gone at Once
Qibla’s principles in life completely contradicted those of Dale Carnegie, and yet in his business life he had come up with his own special methods. He wouldn’t utter the price of anything until the customer had admitted to liking it. If a customer asked the price, he dodged the question, ‘What’re you asking? You like it. Take it. We’re friends.’ When the customer said he liked it, Qibla would stretch out his hand for an advance. Those were the days when everything was cheap. Two to four annas should have been enough. But he would scold, ‘At least show me some silver. I mean, at least one rupee.’ The poor, ashamed soul would bring out a rupee, which in those days was equal to fifteen kilos of wheat or one kilo of pure ghee. Qibla would hold it in his palm so that the customer could have the consolation of seeing it even though he couldn’t grab it. Qibla wouldn’t pocket the money lest the customer get wary and the deal fall through. Then he would declare unilaterally, ‘Congratulations! The deal’s done!’ He would mention the price, and this would flabbergast the customer. If the customer started to haggle, Qibla would say, ‘Are you a fool? You just gave me the advance, and now you want it back? The advance sealed the deal. The coin’s still warm, and you want it back? You’re telling me the coin’s not yours? Just say it. Say it.’ Qibla priced things so well that even the craftiest customer wouldn’t be able to see himself out of the conundrum of what was the worse deal — forfeiting the advance or buying the wood at the stated price.
Howsoever heated the argument would become, Qibla continued to hold out the coin. He never pocketed it. The disgraced customer rested content that at least his money was not yet stolen. There’s a famous story about a fight that broke out between a crazy customer and him. In a swift wrestling move, Qibla threw the customer over his shoulder, planted him on the ground, and sat on his chest. Even then he held the customer’s advance in the palm of his hand so that he could see he wasn’t being cheated. Yet it was true that you couldn’t get such pristine wood from even the trees of paradise, or so he said: ‘I’ve never sold bad wood. A hundred years from now if any termites infest the wood, I’ll give you your money back.’ He lived by his principles. Which is to say, ‘Quality Store, Quality Product, Wrong Price.’ I’ve heard that Harrods, the world’s most famous store, advertises itself as having everything from sewing needles to elephants. But I’ve also heard that the price for either is the same! If Harrods sold lumber, I swear they would follow Qibla’s price points.
2.
We Left This to Come Here
When he left Kanpur and came to Karachi, he found himself in another world altogether. It felt strange. He was unemployed. And homeless. He brought with him a dozen or so photos of the family mansion. ‘Look at this profile. And this photo’s excellent,’ he would say, showing the photos to everyone. ‘We left this to come here.’ When he went to apply for housing at the Allotment Offices, he showed the photos to the officials from where he stood on the other side of the fence, saying, ‘We left this to come here.’ Whether or not he had anything else in the pockets of his waistcoat or shervani, he was sure to have a photo of the mansion. Whenever he met someone new, he showed it to them. He called Karachi apartments different things — matchboxes, chicken coops, and pigeon lofts. But when he couldn’t get even the most measly of apartments after three months of tireless searching, he realized what was going on. His friends explained to him, ‘You can get an apartment in an hour. Just give the custodian some money, and he’ll give you the keys.’ But Qibla was used to receiving bribes, not giving them. For months, he schlepped like a mendicant to the various offices trying to get a house, but to no avail. He’d never been a guest in anyone’s house. But now he had to suffer the torment of living with his daughter and son-in-law.
And… Now?
When a person experiences an excruciating pain or ordeal, it seems like each moment lasts for a year, or as though
Every year has 50,000 days.
He could never have imagined himself being a burden to his daughter. In Kanpur, when he went to her house, he would give her a little money even for a glass of water. But now? He would eat his breakfast with head bowed, then leave to wander around all day before coming home right before the sunset prayer. At dinnertime, he would say he had eaten at an Iranian restaurant. Back home he had had his shoes made at Rahim Bakhsh Cobblers because their shoes always squeaked like new. But now his shoes were completely worn out. His feet developed calluses. And his shervanis became too big. His sick wife couldn’t groan at night for fear of disturbing her in-laws. Dirt started to obscure the Lucknavi embroidery of his muslin kurtas. As his sleeves lost their fit, they fell past his hands. His dyed handlebar mustache remained firmly in place, but only the ends of it remained black. Sometimes it would be as many as four days between baths, and yet his jasmine cologne had run out four months previously.