The Day (Short Story)

 The Day

By 

Tipu Salman Makhdoom

(Translated from Punjabi) 

He cinched his tie around his neck, and before knotting it, he grabbed his phone and hailed an Uber. The app estimated the fare between four hundred and four hundred and fifty rupees. The journey from Johar Town to Mall Road would be some thirteen or fourteen miles. A comfortable, air-conditioned car was to pick him up from home and deliver him precisely where he wished, with utmost deference. He, the master, in the back, and the driver, respectfully in front. Four hundred rupees for such an excursion was hardly excessive. The app indicated the car would arrive in three minutes. He placed his phone on the table, quickly tied his knot, slipped on his socks and shoes, donned his coat, tucked his wallet into one pocket and his phone into the other, and stepped out. The moment he emerged, he encountered the gardener.

"Greetings, Sahib." The gardener scurried towards him like a lamb.

"And to you," he replied distantly. He was certain the gardener would ask for his wages, as the tenth of the month had arrived, and he hadn't yet paid him.

"Sir, those vines you asked me to prune, I've trimmed them," the gardener said, shifting back and forth as if he desperately wanted to be closer to him, but then, as he drew near, he suddenly felt he had come too close, and with a slight jerk, he retreated a little, as if flustered. His heart yearned to embrace the Sahib, even, and shout, "Hand over my wages, Sahib! Don't you know my children ask me daily for money—sometimes for fruit, sometimes for ice cream, sometimes for pencils and notebooks? When my wife asks, I snap at her. It fills me with bitterness. Not at her, but at my own impotence. I don't find my wife bad. I find her very good. But when I have no money to give her, I feel as though I cannot prove my manhood. I'm not just a man who fathers children; even a dog can be that. A woman's honor and her sustenance are also her man's responsibility, Sahib. And when she asks for money and I cannot provide, my masculinity is deeply wounded. Deeply wounded. In an attempt to soothe the ache of my impotence, I badger her every night. I nitpick at the collar of her shirt, her head-covering scarf, and every little thing she says, to prove that I am a great and mighty man. What can I tell you, Sahib? I try to prove my masculinity to myself more than to my wife. But still, when she meekly asks for money, my masculinity is profoundly wounded. It's unbearable, Sahib.

But when the children ask for money, Sahib, I don't feel bitter. I don't. It feels as if I've instantly crumbled, turned into a mound of dust. When the children see me, they laugh and run towards me, jumping and clinging to me, shrieking, Sahib, no matter how much abuse I've suffered outside, my heart blossoms like a flower. And then when they ask for their tiny wishes, Sahib, I don't feel bitter. Even if I try to be bitter, I can't, Sahib. A profound satisfaction graces their lips. For children, their father is God, Sahib. They have more certainty than believers that their God will answer their prayers. Their God is right before them, near them, and hears their prayers. How could they not have faith in their living God? And Sahib, for an unseen God, we devise a hundred excuses, hoping for some good to come to us. But with children, Sahib, that doesn't work. For one, they see their God right before them, and second, they don't know how to make excuses. They immediately open their day of reckoning with God. This world has already emasculated my wife’s  husband, Sahib; don't you now falsify my children's God. Give me money, Sahib. Give me my wages.

But he could neither embrace the Sahib nor utter any of these cries. All of it remained buried within his chest. Buried alive. He feared that if he got too close, the Sahib might become displeased. If that happened, his money would be stuck. Where was the Sahib, and where was he? No one would support him against the Sahib, nor was there any question of claiming his rights through court or police. Before the Sahib, his shoulders slumped, his voice lowered, and his heart pounded like a horse.

Seeing the gardener and hearing about the trimmed vines, Sahib grew annoyed.

"Oh, you've just trimmed the vines now?" Sahib looked at the gardener with a sneer.

"Yes, Sahib, as you instructed," the gardener said with great humility.

Sahib's car had arrived, and he was being penalized three rupees per minute for keeping it waiting. So he was in a hurry.

"Oh, I told you to do that two weeks ago!" he snapped at the gardener.

"Oh, Sahib, my shears were broken. I'll get them fixed once I receive my wages now," the gardener replied.

He wanted nothing more than to dash into his taxi to stop the waiting meter, but he was also quite annoyed with the gardener.

"If you can't even fix your shears without wages, then how did you trim the vines? Should I pay you after two weeks too?"

Even in his haste, he wanted to properly reprimand the gardener before leaving.

"No, no, Sahib," the gardener pleaded like a hungry pet dog, wagging his tail. "For God's sake, I desperately need the money. I borrowed the shears."

He had already intended to pay the gardener his wages. He feared withholding a laborer's due, lest God's wrath fall upon his own sustenance. But it was also necessary to straighten out this gardener.

His heart desired to berate him a little more, but the taxi meter wouldn't let him breathe.

"Alright, alright," he said, pulling out money from his pocket and handing it to him. "Do what I tell you immediately."

Taking the money, the gardener became very happy. "Many thanks, Sahib," and then he quickly ran to open the gate for Sahib. Sahib stepped out and got into the taxi.

The taxi driver greeted him and then asked if they should leave. He nodded, and the taxi set off. Reaching the main road, the taxi driver asked if he preferred a specific route. Looking out the window, he told the driver to take the canal route. About five minutes later, he realized the driver had music playing in the car. He disliked this intensely. He snapped at the driver.

"Hey, why are you playing music?"

Hearing his rebuke, the driver flinched.

"Oh, Sahib, it's the radio. I didn't put it on. The FM channel did. I'll turn it off right away."

Saying this, the driver turned off the radio. The immediate cessation of the radio caused his anger to subside somewhat. But then, he suddenly realized the car windows were open. He snapped at the driver again.

"Hey, you haven't even turned on the AC?"

The driver was scared again and quickly closed the windows and turned on the AC.

"Oh, no sir, I was just about to turn it on."

"Just about to turn it on," he mimicked the driver with a disgusted expression.

After about two minutes, he asked the driver,

"How long have you been with the company?"

And with that, the driver's heart sank.

"Sir, this is my fourth month. Why, sir, have I made a mistake?"

"No, no mistake. Drivers from this company generally don't do such things." This time he spoke in a very calm tone. "Do they still take feedback from clients in your company, or not?"

The driver was far more terrified than the Sahib intended him to be. He wanted to slam on the brakes, stop the car right there, jump out, and throw himself at the feet of the Sahib in the backseat, begging him by the Holy Ghost not to ruin his rating. He wanted to grab his feet and tell him that he wasn't from Farooqabad, but from Choor Kana. Because Farooqabad's original name is also this, and he isn't actually Christian, but a Choorah.

Even today, he is still a Choorah. Still a Choorah. Generations of Choorahs. His ancestors, the Choorah caste, were untouchables. Their homes were outside the village, around that pond where the whole village went to relieve themselves. He wanted to say, Sahib, Hindu dharma assigned this task of cleaning filth to our caste. We have been Choorahs for centuries, every child of ours was a Choorah. We cleaned people's filth, and if our shadow fell upon someone, they would not be purified without bathing. At one time, some of our people also became Muslims. Because the Maulvi Sahibs said a Muslim is a brother to a Muslim, and there is no caste system in Islam, all are equal. But our people, God knows what they are made of. They became Muslims, but remained Choorahs. Now, no Muslim would become impure by touching their hands or clothes, but no one was willing to eat or drink from their utensils.

And when the English priests came, they put their hands on our heads, embraced us, ate and drank from our hands. We went mad with joy. First, they were rulers, and then white-skinned, and they ate and drank with us. We became Christians. We became the sheep of Jesus in our own minds. We thought, now we are equal.

Chaudhry Sahib, I'm a matriculate. I drive. But I am still a Choorah. The people in Choor Kana don't let me do anything. At every turn, they say that Choorahs have gained too much prominence nowadays. And now that I've come to the big city of Lahore to lose my caste in the hustle and bustle of the big city, my caste arrives everywhere before me. Everyone asks, "You're a Choorah, aren't you?"

I've heard that in ancient times, people worshipped the spirits of their ancestors. I say they were right to do so. These ancestors, you see, they never leave you. Not even after death.

Now I work day and night. I don't engage in any dishonesty. Still, all Muslim drivers constantly try to get me removed from this company. Now that I'm giving them no opportunity, I'm beginning to fear that someone might level a false accusation of blasphemy against me and get me fired. I'm being crushed in this mill, and now you're going to complain about me. I played the radio to please you. You didn't like it, so I immediately turned it off. And the AC, that's my mistake. To save a few pennies, I don't turn on the AC until the customer asks. But when you asked, I immediately turned on the AC. Please forgive me, for the sake of your beautiful God.

People greatly despise lizards. But because lizards eat disease-spreading mosquitoes, people don't kill lizards. Yet they want these dirty lizards to stay outside the house. As long as these lizards eat mosquitoes outside, people behave as if the lizards are transparent, as if they don't even see them. And if a lizard ever comes inside the house, these same invisible beasts spread their spines. And Sahib, as long as we remain Choorahs, stay far away, and continue to clean filth, it's fine. But the moment we stop cleaning filth and try to do something else, try to become Christian from Choorah, try to enter society, everyone spreads their spines and attacks us.

But he didn't slam the brakes; he continued driving, pleading, "Sahib, please don't complain about me. I came from Farooqabad to Lahore looking for work, and I found this job with great difficulty."

Hearing this plea, he was greatly pleased. And suddenly, he felt pity for the driver. But still, he puffed out his chest and showed his authority, "No, these methods you're employing won't work!"

"No, no, Sahib," the driver began to beg, lowering himself further. "Please don't complain about me; I will pray for you. My family is not well. For the sake of your God, Sahib."

The driver's phrase "your God" struck him as somewhat strange. It was almost out of his mouth to ask what this "your God" meant, as God is one. But then he remembered reading a news report that the Supreme Court of Malaysia had issued an order that non-Muslims could not call their God "Allah." They could call him "God" or "Bhagwan" or something else, but only Muslims could call their God "Allah." Amidst the tangled emotions of anger, authority, and pity, this became very confusing. He clearly remembered being very happy, even emotional, filled with religious zeal and the spirit of jihad, after reading that news from Malaysia. But at this moment, for some reason, it felt as if these were pre-Islamic ideas, when every tribe had its own god. Two or three seconds passed in this confusion, and the driver thought his apology wasn't being accepted. He panicked, and it slipped from his mouth, "Sahib, if you were inconvenienced by my ride, you don't have to pay." As these words escaped, the driver realized he had made a blunder. Not accepting payment for this ride meant that despite working all day, his pocket would remain empty. And from this terrifying thought alone, his tone became so pathetic that it struck a chord in Sahib's heart. It felt as if someone had pulled him out of the quagmire of gods and thrown him into a world of struggling, wailing humans.

"Oh, no," the Sahib said now in a very soft tone, "I will pay you; I'm not going to take your money. But don't do such things again."

The driver's breath was still catching. "Sahib, about the complaint..."

And he laughed, "Oh, I won't complain about you. Now, pay attention to the road; don't crash the car."

The driver was so happy that when the car reached its destination, he ran out and opened the car door for Sahib. Seeing this, Sahib was reminded of a monkey dancing to the rhythm of a street performer's stick.

Entering the plaza and walking towards the elevator, he pulled out his smartphone from his pocket and checked the time. He had arrived fifteen minutes early. He told his name to the girl sitting at the office reception.

"Yes, your meeting was scheduled," the girl said, looking at the computer screen, "but some people have unexpectedly arrived from abroad today, so your meeting might be postponed to next month."

"Next month?" He felt a jolt. "Even if it doesn't happen today, we'll have the meeting tomorrow. I've brought my proposal. Why a month later?"

"Oh, the boss is going to America tomorrow morning, for six weeks," the girl replied.

"Tomorrow morning?" He was bewildered. "For six weeks?"

"Yes," the girl said with a touch of sympathy, "you can wait, though. Perhaps these people will leave quickly, and your meeting can happen today."

"Miss, it's very important for this meeting to happen today, otherwise, I'll suffer a great loss," he pleaded to the girl, agitated.

The girl seemed intimidated. "Sir, I can't do anything. The boss has strictly instructed me that until these white people leave, he will not meet anyone or take any calls."

Hearing this, he became annoyed. "Miss, you don't understand," he said angrily, raising his voice slightly. "I will meet your boss today, no matter what."

The girl was distressed by his anger and raised voice. She wanted to grab his collar and shake him, and slap him in the face, screaming at him to lower his voice. If his voice reached the office inside, the boss would fire her. The girl wanted to scratch his face and tell him that there was no shortage of jobs for her in Lahore. Every other office would quickly hire her on a good salary. Not because she was educated or good at her job, but because she was young, beautiful, and also poor. Yes, youth and beauty, along with poverty, are great assets for a girl's job. She wanted to wail, "Don't you know, Sahib, people don't give me work to work, they give me work to keep me. They can't keep girls from rich families, because if they even look at them with a dirty gaze, those girls will make a ruckus, and their big families have big men who will shut down the office. That's why no one looks at them with a crooked eye. But no one spares me, Sahib. Everyone looks at me with dirty eyes, from the peon to the officer. Poor girls like me are offered work here as part-time mistresses, in the name of a job."

My husband, Sahib, with great difficulty, has allowed me to work. Not because he is old-fashioned, but because here, every working woman is considered a prostitute. When I talked about working, his problem wasn't that I would do something wrong; his problem was what people would say. And this problem wasn't just his, Sahib, it was mine too. What can I tell you, Sahib, what kinds of things people say about me? Men, and even women, what taunts they don't throw! At every turn, they say I'm a harlot. And men? Men, Sahib, look at me as if I'm not sitting in an office earning a halal living, but sitting on a brothel's roof to perform a mujra. And Sahib, because they don't let their own women out, they have no burden. Everyone walks around like a spectator. In offices, they look at me like a hungry dog looks at a bone. And they make such suggestive, dirty remarks that my blood boils, Sahib. I think if my husband ever came and heard these things, he would kill me and then kill himself. And if that ever happened, Sahib, I would forgive him for my blood. He would be justified in killing me, Sahib. I would definitely tell him to kill all the spectators in front of my eyes before killing me. But he can't, Sahib. For one, he is weak, and second, whom will he kill, poor soul? Here, everyone is a spectator. But what can I do, Sahib? The household doesn't run without a job. The children need to study in good schools, their future needs to be secured, and money is needed. Where will the money come from, Sahib? Where will halal money come from in a poor household?

I cannot leave this job, Sahib. My boss is from a respectable family. While he is here, no one dares to do anything inappropriate with me. I cherish this job, Sahib. Please be quiet, Sahib, for God's sake, be quiet, don't endanger my job.

She said to him in a hushed voice, "Sir, please don't speak loudly. I will do whatever I can for you."

Seeing the girl's pale face, he softened a little. "Miss, please do something. It's very important for me to meet your boss today."

"Sir, I'm doing something. But please don't speak loudly. If someone complains about me, I'll lose my job." She was almost on the verge of tears.

"Alright, alright," seeing the girl's face, he completely gave in. "I won't speak loudly, Miss, but please do something; it's very important."

The girl told him to sit opposite her, and she would do something. He went and sat down, and the girl started to think about what to do. She couldn't do anything, but she feared that if the Sahib made a fuss, her job would be at risk. She was engrossed in these worries when the door opened, and the white people left. The girl sighed in relief, and a flush returned to the Sahib's cheeks as well.

The boss had seen him as he bid farewell to the white people, and he, too, had quickly offered a slight smile and a nod as a greeting to the boss. In his eagerness, it felt to him as if the boss had responded to his greeting with his eyes. Now he, too, was sitting calmly, and the girl was happily typing on her computer.

A little later, the boss called him inside. He quickly gathered his files and rushed towards the boss's room as if he were two seconds late, the boss would escape through the window. The boss was not in a good mood. It seemed the white people had given him a hard time, he thought, and secretly chuckled to himself. But he kept his facial muscles taut, because if the boss even sensed that he was making fun of him internally, his proposal would be doomed. He lifted himself from the chair, respectfully placed his papers before the boss, and then sat back, very politely. The boss, without moving, cast an annoyed glance at the papers.

"You were supposed to bring this last week," the boss said with a sneer. And with that, the Sahib's heart sank.

"Yes, sir. But I called you and informed you that there was a lot of work, so there might be a slight delay... sometimes," he said, watching the boss's expression with fearful eyes. And when the boss neither affirmed nor took the papers, his heart skipped a beat.

"I prepared this proposal with great effort, sir. You know that mental work sometimes takes a little longer... occasionally."

When the boss still said nothing, he became very scared. He wanted to leap onto the table and grab the boss's face and smash it into the papers. Then, he wanted to pick up each paper, hold it before the boss's face, and tell him to read it. "Don't you know how much brain-wracking I've done on these? And until you read them, how will you know what I've brought? For God's sake, Boss, read these. I am sure you will like my proposal very much. Read it and approve it, Boss; my honor is in your hands."

My splendid home is not my own; it's rented. There are only four of us, and even a five-marla house is too much for us. But still, I carry the burden of a full kanal house on my head. And Boss, Johar Town is a very expensive area. I could have taken a house in the inner city or beyond Thokar, and I wanted to, because the rents there are much lower. But I've taken neither a distant nor a small house. I have no desire to show off, Boss. I've reached this point by enduring the pain of life. My father was a peon in a government office. How he cut back on food to educate me, my heart knows. I curse showing off and spending money on useless things. But what can I do? A sickle has teeth on one side, and the world has teeth on both sides. When I started working, I used to live inside Bhati Gate and travel by buses and rickshaws. I don't care much for clothes either; I just wore decent ones. Initially, wherever I went to get work, no one would give me the time of day. Slowly, I understood that people considered me weak after seeing my old, worn-out clothes. And you know about the strong and the weak, Boss; seeing the strong brings laughter to people, and seeing the weak brings bitterness. Then I somewhat convinced myself that this is an old custom of the world: eat what you value, wear what the world values.

Some work started coming in, and I tried to leap upwards. Then the same thing happened. What did high-class people think of someone who traveled by buses and rickshaws? But I couldn't bring myself to buy a car, Boss. For one, I didn't need a car at all, and second, I didn't have the money. But when I heard people talking in an office, saying that people can buy clothes even from second-hand markets, but a man's worth is known by his car, I crumbled. Still, I couldn't bring myself to do it, Boss. I talked to my wife, and softly, she also told me that relatives were talking about her. She, poor soul, couldn't say it to my face, but I understood that, fed up with the taunts of the relatives, she also wanted us to get a car. And then, Boss, I leased a car from the bank (which is in the workshop for annual checkup today). What else could I do? Where would I get so much money? Now a heavy burden fell on my heart, Boss. First, I had to pay the car installment every month, and second, the fear that if I couldn't pay the installments now, on one hand, there would be financial loss because the bank would seize the car, and on the other hand, it would become an unnecessary mockery among relatives that he used to act like a big car-owning Sahib, and now he's back to his reality.

But the car showed its magic, Boss. Firstly, our prestige among relatives increased greatly, and my wife was happy too. And secondly, when I went to offices and placed my new car key on the papers, they looked at my car key with more attention than my papers. The honest truth is, Boss, that the car significantly increased my business. Now I understood that the world is all a game of showing the right and hitting the left. And then, after some time, I arranged to make another leap: a big house in a posh area of Lahore. With higher rent. And between you and me, Sahib, this house is also a great earner. Because of it, people have given me a lot of work. Sometimes, Boss, I even think that my education, intelligence, and hard work are on one side, and this car and house, the showing off, are on the other. If I'm honest, the car and house have earned me more.

But now I'm caught in a trap. Earlier, if earnings were low in a month, I would calculate which expenses to cut to make ends meet. But not now, Boss. Now, just the thought of low earnings sends shivers down my spine. If the installment isn't paid, the car will go. If the rent isn't paid, the house will go. It's not that I'll die without them, but my honor and earnings will also be lost. In this society, my worth is not due to my qualities but to this showing off. Earlier, I worked more to earn more and to consume more, but now I work more because low earnings mean the showing off is gone. And if the showing off is gone, then understand that the earnings are also gone. It feels as if I'm riding a motorcycle in a well of death. Round and round and round. I can go up and down, I can go slow and fast, but I can't stop. If I stop, it's over. Utter ruin.

And now, if you leave without looking at the papers, what will become of my work? What will become of my money? My car, my house, my wife's happiness, my honor among relatives, and what will become of my future work, Boss? For God's sake, don't ruin me like this.

"Sir, please just look at it," he said to the boss, almost in tears.

Hearing his weeping voice, perhaps the boss took pity.

"Okay, you can leave it with me; I'll look at it," the boss said.

"But sir, you're leaving tomorrow; what will happen to my proposal?" The words seemed to slip out of his mouth. And immediately, he feared that hearing about his departure, the boss might get angry. And for a moment, perhaps the boss did feel annoyed, but seeing his pale face, he laughed.

"Don't worry," he said with a smile, "I've already spoken with GM Sahib. I'll send your proposal to him, and he will look at it and coordinate with you."

Stepping out of the office and hailing an Uber from his smartphone's smart app, he felt such affection for the boss that he wanted to go back and kiss his face.