I was returning home by the four o’clock train. That morning I had taken the ten o’clock somewhere and since I was returning on the same day, I was travelling without any luggage. My destination was still a station away when the train halted, and I saw a man descend from the second-class coach. He must have been six feet tall. A big moustache quivered with the wind on his intimidating face. Dressed in a long shirt and breeches, he had the air of a wrestler, and seemed to be waiting for somebody. He soon spotted someone, probably a servant, at a distance. In a flash, his face turned furious. I was sitting in the next compartment. Another gentleman, also observing the scary young man, speculated he was a murderer. I looked at him, and then back at the frightful man’s terrifying face, and mentally agreed with this assessment, for he had such blazing eyes! As soon as his servant reached him, the man lunged at him with such force that, startled, the servant recoiled and narrowly avoided crashing into the guard standing next to him. The guard lowered his whistle and stood aside. He glanced with concern, first at the servant, then at the gentleman; both smiled back, and the train pulled out of the station.

*****

     I got down at the next station. So did this gentleman. Believe me, I thought I was in the devil’s embrace when this man crushed me in his arms, with a “You! Here?!” Had his belly not been soft, my ribs would have easily snapped. As soon as he released me, he seized my hand and laughingly declared, “Now I won’t let go of you!”

     Here, I would like to tell you that I detested idle chatter in those days (not anymore) like I detested little else. I used to observe people talking—pointlessly interrupting one another and each busy trying to get everyone else to listen to him alone. Often, objections were raised at my unusual silence and I would be accused of not taking any interest in the conversation. Instead of responding to these charges, I would silently recall the couplets of Chacha Saadi:

When an affair succeeds without my idle talk,

It is not meet for me to speak thereon.

But if I see a blind man near a well,

It is a crime for me to stay silent.^*

     Following these words in spirit, I could have remained silent when the man grabbed me and declared he wouldn’t let go, but in this case, silence was simply not an option. Before I could ask him Sir, who are you and why have you grabbed me and why won’t you let me go and how won’t you let me go, he continued with his monologue without waiting for my reply.

     “It’s been so long. Where have you been? How are you? I hope your Vaalid Sahib is well? Where are the others? You wretch! Useless fellow! Watch it! Arre, use your eyes!”

     He was grinding his teeth at the servant. My anxiety that somehow these words were addressed to me faded from my mind. Actually, he did not seem to need any response from me, nor did I feel brave enough for one. Had I been naturally quick-witted, I would have promptly answered him and happily been on my way home by now. I was trying to gather my wits and find the words with which to clear up the confusion, and I found myself succeeding in this, for I beg your pardon, I didn’t recognize you struck me as an appropriate response to the situation. So, I began: “I beg your pardon…”

     But he interrupted me immediately: “No, how is this possible?” And then, in the same vein: “No luggage?” And then again without waiting for my answer: “Ah, you must have been on a day trip. Never mind all that, I won’t release you for the next few days now.” Guffawing, he repeated loudly, “Oh yes, I just can’t release you.”

     I told myself snatch your hand back and run. But for one, my slender wrist was in his iron grip, and on top of that the station was crowded. Escape was a silly notion.  

***** 

     He dragged me by my wrist to his car and made me get in. Before entering, I paused for a moment, meaning to ask Sir, where are you taking me and why? I was clearing my throat to ask him this, when he pushed me in, and following close behind, said: “I won’t let you go… I hope your Vaalid Sahib is well?”

     I replied, “He is well and…”

     He interrupted me to say, “And the rest?” And then, “Everything else is fine? Arre miyaan, what is this nonsense I hear about your Vaalid Sahib marrying again? Is this true?”

     Allah save us! I thought, for although it had been years since my Vaalida Sahiba’s demise, Alhamdulillah, I was still blessed with two living mothers. Could it be that my venerable Vaalid Sahib guided by his natalist disposition had… Or perhaps it was out of pity for me that, considering the maternal affection of two mothers insufficient, he had added another to the list!

     What if I had failed to recognize this gentleman and his aggressive proceedings turned out to be perfectly reasonable? Why not apologize to him, inquire further, and introduce myself properly? But my natural reserve (although now I am quite talkative) and habitual reluctance to make enquiries (Alhamdulillah, now I launch into questions immediately) were my weaknesses. I was struck by how peculiar a fix I was in. I would wring my hands and try to say something, but I was unable to say anything at all, and even when I mustered the courage to say something, he would quickly slip in another question before I could get a word in.

     I had just made up my mind to clear up the matter and ask my questions when the car drew up to a bungalow. I had finally found a good opportunity to apologize to him at length, but as the car entered the driveway, the gentleman resumed, “You wouldn’t have seen that grape vine on your last visit. The heads of three monkeys lie buried at its roots.”

     What could I possibly say in reply, given that this was my first visit there, and in captive form at that, and here he was, going on about monkeys.

     He had made this announcement rather boastfully, perhaps expecting me to ask him in amazement what offence the monkeys had been guilty of, to have been subject to such Changezi treatment, to which he would provide a rational explanation, and I would exclaim in even greater wonder. It must have been with this intention that he repeated, “Oh yes, monkeys! Monkeys’ heads.” But my silence dashed his hopes. So, he launched forth on his own. “Actually, I’m writing a book on the art of gardening. You see, monkey heads make for excellent grape fertilizers.”

     Whatever could I say to this? I was silently debating whether or not to give up eating grapes altogether. Moving on from the subject of gardening, he said, “Look, there lies Percy’s grave.” With this, he pointed his finger at a rectangular platform.

     Now, I was familiar with the graves of the English, so this was no new sight for me. I was acquainted with the name "Percy" as well. Anyone reading the newspaper would know of Sir Percy Cox, the Iraqi High Commissioner, and his statesmanship and diplomacy. But how come his grave was here? He must have been close to this man, my loath-to-question mind decided, and laid its doubts to rest. We were approaching the verandah. The car was crawling at this point, and matching its pace, he said: “I was so upset at Percy’s death that I didn’t eat anything for the whole day.”

     By now I was convinced of his friendship with Sir Percy. Right then, a small dog ran up to the car. The bungalow was still some distance away, but the dog had come to welcome its master. I was trying to assess its inclination for biting, when the man spoke, “Just see, this poor fellow outlived Percy. She was such a marvelous bitch.”

     I gaped at him as he showered praises, “Can you imagine, such a small dog, but she could kill a cat all by herself! What’s more remarkable is that if she spotted a stranger on the premises, she wouldn’t rest till she had dealt with him.”

     I grew alert. I was secretly glad that Percy was dead and no longer around. But I soon recalled the other, living dog. I, dear reader, am mortally afraid of dogs, especially those wretched ones which, though not prone to biting, still give chase, and losing all sense, knock you down. I cast a lingering gaze on Percy’s grave and then regarded the one alive, that is, the deceased Percy’s widower.

     In the meantime, the car came to a stop by the verandah, where I spotted a fearsome bulldog stretching and rising to its feet. We got out. The small dog was wagging its tail and rolling at its master’s feet but the grave senior, Sire Bulldog, was coming for my soul. In other words, he descended from the verandah and began sniffing at me. I stopped breathing and turned so pale that the man sensed my fear and cheerfully said, “Arre, he is the same old Tommy. Only his face is scary. The poor thing doesn’t even know how to bite. At most, if he feels really brave, he will just go and cling to you.” He laughed heartily at my bewilderment because I had leapt back into the car. “La Hawla Wala Quwwat, your fear of dogs hasn’t gone anywhere. This is old Tommy!” With this assurance, he dragged me out of the car, and I soon found myself barging into a room. Fortunately, the dogs found a squirrel and gave such spirited chase, that they soon disappeared from sight. I heaved a sigh of relief.

***** 

     Entering the house, he called out for food to be served. Allah save us, I thought, how is this a dining hour? Soon, hands were washed. As if he would have accepted my refusal. I consoled myself— “this too is among the sorrows of love.”

     The table was laid with hot pulao, shami kababs, egg korma, and other dishes. I was soon absorbed in shuffling around the rice on my plate and making a mound with it, while he busied himself with eating rapidly —no, not quite eating—drinking, the rice. Perhaps he did not know how to chew at all or maybe did not consider rice something worth chewing.

     “Where is Master Arif?” he shouted out to the servant, “Bring him here right away.” Then he turned towards me with a smile, saying, “Your nephew did not come out. Must be in the bath. Otherwise, he always takes his meals with me.”

     Believe me when I say I looked around the room for means of escape. Nephew! That word was no less terrifying to me than the word "lion." He who has not one, not two, but counting blood and step relations, a total of fourteen-and-a-half nephews, come ask him if he considers the world happy or hellish. Allah alone knows whether hell is strewn with nephews to torture sinners. If my nephews made their way into heaven, then I would consider hell an abode of peace and refuge in comparison. No, I am not exaggerating. Just consider fourteen-fifteen nephews all living under the same roof, and then imagine the plight of the wretched uncle. As if my life wasn’t already under abundant threat from the fifteen nephews at home, here springs another one! If I ever heard of anyone killing themselves, I would try to find out how many nephews the departed had left behind. One was tolerable, but if there were two of them, I could easily deduce the cause of death. The word "nephew," mean what it may to others, in my dictionary was synonymous with the Angel of Death and the Secretary of Hell.

     I was pondering over this philosophy when he asked, “How many children do you have now?”

     What on earth could I have replied, given that I was not even married yet. But I don’t think he expected a response, for he immediately said next, “Where is your wife? How are your children?”

     He added with special emphasis: “You do have children?”

     I was compelled to state, “None.”

     The big fistful of rice that he had just put into his mouth, was swallowed with an “arre.” “Arre, both? Poor things. But when did this happen? Really, if He gifts us children, may He keep them alive, otherwise their birth followed by their death…Allah have mercy.”

     He was probably trying to sympathize with me when he said, “Who knows how your wife is bearing this.”  

     Just think for a moment—how on earth was I to comment on the mental state of that unknown girl who was to be my future wife?

     Meanwhile, he arrived!

     Who? That Angel of Death or Secretary of Hell himself, which is to say, my alleged nephew, Arif. I cowered, because he was shooting towards us like an arrow, chanting “Papa! Papa!” I composed myself and was contemplating the forms and possibilities of defense, when he suddenly swerved. He fell on his papa and was soon absorbed in drinking his pulao.

     The esteemed senior, the father, said to the worthy junior, the son: “You did not greet uncle or shake his hand.” “Hand shake…Salaam…Hand shake...” he urged repeatedly. This formality implicated me as well, but such hypocrisy was beyond me. For one, as it is I was a quiet man who wanted to carry on without conversation for as long as possible (not anymore), and for another, I was against including nephews in my prayers. Now, don’t rush to the conclusion that, Allah forbid, I wished death upon them—why, let them live to see a thousand years—but they were best kept out of my prayers.

     Fed up with the repeated insistence, finally Master Nephew drove a dagger through my heart, which is to say, planting his pulao-greased right hand on my knee, he thrust his left one at me for a handshake. I was aghast. Seeing my clean trousers smeared with ghee, I saw blood. For I had but this one pair of trousers that had somehow survived my nephews’ assaults. There I was, cleaning the rice off my knee, and here his father was saying, “Haaye, with your left hand!” How I wish the cherished nephew had extended his right hand for the blasted handshake in the first instance, and placed his left one on my knee instead, or even wound it around my neck! Willy nilly, I shook his hand, as these bitter words ran through my mind: You little monster, you ruined my one clean pair of trousers.

*****

     I sighed with relief when the precious nephew abandoned his meal and ran away shouting, “Bat! Bat!” Either he was a naturally fast runner, or it was true that reciting the La Hawla chases the devil away. I was chanting the verse in my mind and marveling at its swift effects.

     “Why did you stop trading in bones?” the man next enquired, engrossed as he was with the bone marrow on his plate. 

     Readers, please understand that I could have stopped trading in bones only if I had ever begun trading in them in the first place. I wanted to say, “Sir, what business do I have with the bone business?” But Allah knows, he had been answering his own questions from the very beginning, or else moving on to the next one without waiting for any answer. Why would he have let me escape? Before I could swallow my mouthful of food and reply, he said: “Once a trader, always a trader, if not bones, then ribs.” With this, he broke into peals of laughter.

     I was brooding over this deep truth when that Angel of Death reappeared. That fatal child came trumpeting, bat in hand, and instead of resuming his meal, he made a sword of his bat and began striking different poses with it. He was mimicking the postures of the martial art Binot! My host, or more precisely, my hunter—had he been accustomed to eating instead of drinking his rice, would have surely choked with all the laughing (for how could mere laughter interrupt his meal, and he was laughing a lot)—exclaimed, “Just watch his body move!” Alas, I was watching that body move all too well and feeling like every passing breath was a boon.

     The essence of Binot lies in concentration. As long as you maintain eye contact with your opponent or follow his actions with your eyes, you are safe, or else it is blink-and-get hit. I had always heard this, and soon it was proven true.

     Twice his bat flew over my skull and had I not shielded my head, I would have certainly lost it. All his father did was sigh. My anxious gaze was pasted on that guillotine-worthy nephew, when my gracious host protested that I had eaten very little and offered, “Here, you didn’t take any kababs.”

     My gaze slipped, and the bat landed on my face with such force that my nose was smashed, in fact, it felt like my nose had flown off with my spectacles. Immediately, I felt around for my nose and discovering it intact, dove for my spectacles. Nephew dear too had suffered a fall. One of my spectacle lenses had cracked. My host exclaimed “Ya Ali!” and attended to the fallen falcon, and I to my glasses. “Very bad,” he rebuked his son. He apologized to me and then directed his son to ask my forgiveness, although by this point, I myself was begging his mercy and protection. When the boy fell quiet, he instructed, “Fine, now leave.”

     Then he looked in a particular direction and called out, “Arre, why don’t you come out? How silly of you.” Saying this, he rose to his feet.

     Now was the perfect chance for me to slip away, for he had gone into another room. I wanted to take advantage of this golden opportunity, but what do I see—that fierce-looking Tommy and the smaller dog were coming my way at the speed of a mail train.

     Ya Allah! What was I to do now! On the one hand, the dogs were fast approaching, and on the other, the misunderstanding would come to light if I met Begum Sahiba. Had the dogs not cornered me, I would have bolted for sure. My heartbeat quickened as I felt her peeping at me.

     I froze. I felt my soul take flight.

     I concentrated all my energy into strategizing the possibilities of fleeing and protecting myself from my hosts in a way that would save my skin from the dogs as well.

     The only way out involved bounding over a big flowerpot. I assessed its height.

     I heard husband and wife have a sharp exchange, after which my host emerged with a solemn face. I was poised to make a dash for it, but my wretched feet seemed to be pinned to the ground.

     He was near me now.

     I glanced at the dogs, and then surveyed the pot. I quickly calculated that if I took the leap and turned to the left, it was possible to scale the compound wall and escape.

     He stood before me now.

     I knew that if I was thrown a punch, I had to block it with my wrist. This way, only my wrist would be broken, but at least I would save my face.

     He stared at his glossy shoes.

     I turned to look at the other room and found Begum Sahiba peeping out.

     “Do forgive me,” my host said, very politely. “Perhaps a misunderstanding…I mistook you…” I bowed and replied, “I too regret this confusion.” He said, “If I may know your name...” I introduced myself. Instantly he said, “Offo, your Vaalid Sahib is an old acquaintance of mine! It’s a pleasure to meet you,” and shook my hand.

     “How you resemble my friend Hamid! Identical! Exactly the same! Only your eyes are a bit smaller, and your forehead is narrower than his, otherwise, you have the same face! And yes…he doesn’t wear spectacles and his lips are a bit thinner, otherwise he is your splitting image! Only…your nose is a bit bigger and broader and because of the spectacles—where are they?” I told him that since one of the lenses had cracked, I had put them away in my pocket. He expressed his regret over the shattered glasses, and then courteously said, “So what if we haven’t met before, but now we’ve become good friends.” Saying this, he shook my hand very warmly again. 

     I asked to be excused and he protested, but when I didn’t relent, he said he would send the car with me, and fool that I was, I declined. He made me several offers and I refused them all. He came to see me off at the first turn of the garden and pressed his sincere invitation to visit again. After that he left, and I strode towards the gate.

     But dear readers, he hadn’t taken the dogs back with him! There they were, following me, wagging their tails and flapping their ears.

     My heart did somersaults and I walked faster. So did the accursed dogs.

     As my pace increased, so did theirs. Helpless, I broke into a sprint, and so did they.

     By now I was running so wildly, that I could no longer tell my arms from my legs. I used to wear spectacles for my weak eyesight. Without them, the way ahead was blurry, and on top of that, it was turning dark. But, dear readers, he who is chased by dogs can only act blindly. I fled from the dogs with all my might. Abandoning the gate, I made for the low compound wall.

     The blasted dogs were now not only chasing but barking their heads off as well. I quickly sprang onto a soft pile of garbage and, risking life and limb, ran so recklessly that instinctively I vaulted over the wall.

     Tumbling over garbage and dung heaps I landed fifteen feet below, rose to my feet hastily, stumbled, and fell again.

     I glanced back and after assuring myself that the dogs had not made it over the wall, once again I ran madly, holding on to dear life, and stopped only upon reaching the road.

     My whole body and all my clothes were covered in filth. My trousers were destroyed. Brushing and wiping myself, I somehow made it home.

*****

     That was then. Since that day, I have taken an oath that come what may, I will not stop blabbering. Now, if I ever find anyone remotely quiet, I force them to speak, and always make sure to extract all my answers from them.

*from Saadi’s Gulistaan (1258), English translation by Edward Rehatsek (The Gulistaan or Rose Garden of Sa’di, Omphaloskepsis, 2010, p. 62).