The Price of Blood (Short Story)

 

The Price of Blood

By

Shahzad Aslam

(Translated from Punjabi)

 

Ramadan lived in a cramped house in the narrow lanes of Krishan Nagar. From its solid, plastered walls, dirt would flake away ceaselessly, like blood seeping from an open sore. A small wound, left untended, festers into a painful boil. How long can one endure a life riddled with such afflictions? Perhaps even this house wished for its own demise.

Ramadan's father was as old as the house itself. They were born together, destined, it seemed, to share a life, each a blessing to the other. Now, both were crumbling, slowly, relentlessly. Within the confines of their home, his father’s cough resonated like a muffled drumbeat, a rhythmic thud foretelling the old man’s ascent to the higher reaches of illness. Even the softest whisper seemed to echo like a clamor in that tiny space. It was called a house, yet it felt more like a pigeon coop. Its many occupants, constantly moving in and out, brushed against each other in the constricted passages. The very bricks of the house, stained crimson, seemed to push Ramadan outward, hinting at a world beyond. His spirit longed to soar in the vastness outside these walls.

When his flights of fancy extended from day into night, his father resolved to clip his wings. Within six months, almost before he knew it, Ramadan's father arranged a marriage within their own community. After Ramadan’s wedding, the house’s inhabitants clung to its meager space like pigeons nesting under a roof, their lives more cramped than ever. A newlywed couple, for a few precious days, requires a separate room, a new cot, a bit of privacy. But in those days, the family, searching for their cots after dusk, would stumble and fall over each other. With only two rooms in the house, what else could one do?

Then, one day, his father’s cot, shifted and scraped across the floor, found its final resting place in the veranda. A single night’s chill was enough to ravage the old man. The next night, his cot, now truly infirm, was dragged into the newlywed couple's room. Seeing this, Ramadan's wife, Fatima, wrinkled her nose in distaste. But who noticed her furrowed brow? Everyone needed a place to sleep. When her unspoken protest went unheeded, her frown faded.

His father’s cough grew louder in Ramadan’s room. A fever had begun to consume him. The neighbors, observing the old man, whispered that Ramadan would soon inherit this decaying house. And truth be told, that’s exactly what happened. His father coughed with every breath, until one day, the coughing ceased. Ramadan and his wife were now on the cusp of owning not just one room, but the entire house. In the other room lived his mother, his deceased brother's wife, and their four children. Who could say whether his brother had a greater eagerness for death or for having children? A year after his marriage, Ramadan also welcomed a son into the world. The house, somehow, became even livelier. The old souls of the house would flutter away, and new ones would alight to take their place.

His mother, too, followed his father, as if she had gone to find him. Ramadan found himself torn between tears and laughter as old trees withered and new saplings sprouted in their stead. Ramadan’s father had been a municipal employee, and the entire household ran on his meager pension. Driven to despair by the expenses, Ramadan’s sister-in-law also left the house one day, returning to her parents' home. The passing of his parents made Ramadan the true master of the house. Now, the cramped dwelling in the narrow lane seemed like a palace to Ramadan’s wife. Ramadan’s life had, in its own way, become easier.

Looking at Ramadan's health, one might have thought his mother's milk hadn't agreed with him. His chest was so gaunt, one could count his ribs. He was gentle by nature and looked quite forlorn. Sometimes, he even felt pity for himself. He would always greet his father's old friends. Seeing a meek soul like Ramadan idle, they, too, felt compassion. Finally, one day, Ramadan found employment at the courthouse near his home. One of his father’s acquaintances, for a small fee, had secured Ramadan a position there. His father, throughout his life, had fretted that his son would amount to nothing. Now, with a government job, that same son had not only become a provider but had also gained a measure of wisdom. Perhaps a government job even makes fools wise!

At the courthouse, he was known as the 'Ahlmad', or court clerk. His job was to look after court records. You could call him a record keeper. Every morning, as he left home for the court, the street would be dominated by an army of petty employees and laborers. On that same road stood the old Civil Secretariat building. Where once horse-drawn carriages kicked up dust, now motorcycles and buses belched smoke into the air. This triumph of smoke was declared by the patiently tethered donkey on the roadside. No one had time to listen to the tale of that idle donkey’s better days. Ramadan would kick-start his motorcycle daily and arrive at his court-attached room on the third floor of the Hall of Justice fifteen minutes early. One cupboard and one chair in that room were under Ramadan's dominion. Across the central table, another court's Ahlmad also presided over his own cupboard and chair, the table a silent border between them. This room was a giant ant hill. Some came to leave offerings, others to take them. The coming and going of people was constant.

Ramadan would arrive early each morning to set out the files for hearings and the list of cases before court hours began. What became of the cases? That was not Ramadan's concern. He had no interest in the verdicts. He was the horse harnessed to a tanga (horse-drawn carriage), indifferent to its passengers. No matter how honestly Ramadan worked, it made no difference to the people's hardships and tribulations. He possessed no means to bring peace to anyone. One thing Ramadan could never grasp was why everyone entering this grand building was wary of trusting each other. Only one belief resonated there, a persistent echo: "No work here can be done straightforwardly."

When Ramadan first started, a strange, acrid smell lingered in the air.

"What is this smell?" he asked the Ahlmad sitting across from him.

"It's the stench of dead hopes," the other Ahlmad replied with a laugh. "Slowly, it will become like perfume to you."

People needing copies of files would approach Ramadan, seating themselves beside him and speaking in sweet, cajoling tones. Some would leave dried fruits on his desk, others roasted peanuts.

"Whose word does your judge heed?" a famous cloth merchant from the city asked Ramadan one day. The merchant’s case was ongoing in this court, and a decision was imminent.

"I don't know! Ask the judge yourself," Ramadan, already irritated by the volume of work, retorted, turning his face away. The merchant glanced around cautiously before getting up, ensuring no one else had overheard their conversation. But across the table, Naseer, the other Ahlmad, had heard it all. He looked at Ramadan and chuckled.

"You haven't learned how to do this job properly. You'll put weevils in our grain too," Ahlmad Naseer said, reprimanding and advising his colleague, Ramadan.

"What harm have I done to you?" Ramadan shot back angrily, an edge in his voice.

"Oh, my innocent brother!" Naseer exclaimed. "These petitioners are angels sent by God. Take notes from their overflowing pockets by dropping coins of hope into their open hands. They'll be happy, and so will we." Naseer provoked Ramadan again.

"I can't do that work," Ramadan replied firmly.

"Alright, don't, but remember this: the closer you get to these petitioners, the more they will treat you like free merchandise to be exploited," Naseer said, then fell silent, as if he had fulfilled his duty. Ramadan disliked these conversations. It wasn’t in his nature to frighten people and then trade on their fear for comfort.

The next morning, when Ramadan woke up, his wife told him about their son's fever. Ramadan took his son’s arm in his hand, feeling the heat radiate from the small body. His son’s forehead was burning. Ramadan quickly pulled a knotted plastic bag from under the clothes in the cupboard, opened it, and began reading the names of pills and syrups. He handed one bottle of syrup to his wife.

"Put this Calpol syrup down the little one's throat three times, and the fever will go down. If it doesn't, we'll go to the doctor in the evening," Ramadan told his wife reassuringly. As he stroked his son's burning forehead, several fears began to sting Ramadan. The dread of his son’s life ending began to torment him. Even this small illness of his son’s was unbearable for Ramadan. The burden of getting to the office also weighed heavily on him. He began to get ready for work, but his mind remained fixed on the feverish forehead. He also wanted to reach the office on time, as late arrival meant bowing his head before the judge. No one cared that his son was ill. That day, for the first time, Ramadan arrived at his office room fifteen minutes late. Naseer was surprised to see him. The thought of his son's illness, far from home, had driven Ramadan to distraction. Life seemed to drain from his legs and feet. He felt as if something terrible would happen to his son if he didn't go home quickly. He was so preoccupied, he could barely focus. His heart yearned to run home, but by then, the room began to fill with people. Official work pulled him back. His entire attention was on his home, yet his body was so entrenched in daily tasks, as if habit, not thought, guided his actions. Naseer, sitting in the chair opposite, kept watching Ramadan's downcast face. Who could stop him from speaking? He began to talk to Ramadan.

"Ramadan! This work is not for you. You should sell sugarcane juice on the street," Naseer said to Ramadan with a laugh.

"Yes! All wisdom has gathered in you," Ramadan retorted, a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

"You don't know the art of extracting your happiness from others' helplessness. God sends abundant petitioners to you. Which of His blessings will you turn away from?" Naseer, it seemed, poured all his experience before Ramadan.

Ramadan and Naseer were engrossed in conversation when three or four lawyers entered the room. Their very arrival sounded an alarm. Naseer looked at them, and a whispered "God have mercy" escaped his lips.

"We will not allow the business of corruption to run here," the lawyer standing in front said, looking at Ramadan and Naseer in turn. The sparse hair on that lawyer’s head hung like long grass. In his thick black beard, white hairs stood out like turnips among wild greens. The lawyers standing behind him looked like clappers behind a qawwali singer. Hearing that lawyer's words, Naseer began to worry about himself. Naseer wiped the sweat from his forehead with his hand and stood up.

"Is all well, sir?" Naseer asked the bearded lawyer.

"Which of you is Ramadan?" the lawyer asked Naseer sharply. Hearing this, Naseer took a deep breath and pointed a finger towards Ramadan.

"Don't you hear us?" the lawyer asked Ramadan, grabbing him by the collar. The lawyers standing behind them pressed forward like oxen straining at a yoke. Ramadan stood up, his hands and feet trembling. Naseer stepped forward and tried to free Ramadan’s collar. Words of pleading tumbled from Naseer’s mouth. The bearded lawyer loosened his grip on Ramadan's collar, but his companions continued to jostle and butt like goats.

"What is this innocent man's fault?" Naseer asked, stepping between them and Ramadan. The bearded lawyer's anger receded like a returning wave.

"You seem wise and respectable to us," the lawyer said to Naseer. Courage began to seep back into Naseer's veins.

"Just give the order," Naseer said to the lawyer, smiling. Ramadan, trying to understand his fault, listened to their words with his head bowed. A single prayer escaped from within him: that these troubles might pass. He longed for the passing of this moment, divided into endless, agonizing seconds.

"The entire court is colluding with the other party against us… they are tampering with our file," the lawyer continued, now crossing all boundaries in his accusations. Ramadan stood like a horse whose legs had given way from exhaustion. The legs of an honorable and gentle person forget how to stand or sit when accused.

Ramadan's state was like that of a dead man surrounded by mourners, yet lying indifferent. Hearing the commotion in the room, more people gathered. The room, inside and out, became crowded. Some were there for their own work.

"Quickly, get our file!" a lawyer standing behind shouted, arms outstretched. Naseer touched the bearded lawyer's beard, pleading.

"You are our elder brother. Just give the command!" Naseer said, embracing the lawyer. Naseer asked them for the case number, took out the file from Ramadan’s cupboard, and placed it before them. Escaping the crowded room, the lawyers stood in the outer veranda, reading the file. Ramadan was still unaware of his fault. It wasn't the time to know either. The lawyers' clerks began submitting their copy forms to Ramadan. Ramadan immersed himself in his work. Suddenly, Ramadan remembered his son’s fever. He finished his work in the afternoon and rushed home before court hours ended. Forgetting everything else, the thought of his son’s cough spurred him to accelerate his motorcycle. Today, he no longer feared a collision. Parking his motorcycle outside the house, Ramadan rushed inside as a hen sensing danger rushes to her chicks. He went directly to the room where his son lay unconscious. Ramadan felt the fever radiating from his son's neck, slipping between his fingers. His wife, too, was waiting anxiously. Ramadan’s heart began to pound as if he had been struck by a cold shock.

"Come on, let's quickly take him to the doctor," Ramadan told his wife. His wife picked up the child and clutched him to her chest. The withered flower clinging to his mother’s breast made the father weep. Ramadan began searching for his motorcycle keys. His pant pocket was empty. When he couldn't find the keys, he strained his mind to remember. He recalled that he had left the key in the ignition. Carrying the child, both of them stepped over the threshold and out of the house. Seeing the empty street, Ramadan's eyes widened in alarm. His motorcycle wasn't there. He ran up and down the street like Bibi Hagar running between the Safa and Marwa hills, searching for water for her son, Ismail, who lay on the ground. He saw no sign of his motorcycle. His attention fell on his son's sweet eyes, and he stopped looking for the motorcycle, walking into the street towards the market road. His wife, wrapped in her shawl, followed close behind. Ramadan hailed a rickshaw with a hand signal and, as soon as they were inside, asked to be taken to the doctor's clinic.

The doctor gave the child medicine and the parents reassurance. Returning home, Ramadan began to worry about his motorcycle. Back home, he started searching for the motorcycle as King Shuja, after losing his throne in Kabul, searched everywhere for it. Just as Shuja never found his throne, Ramadan never found his motorcycle. Within two days, his son's fever subsided, but the fever of the lost motorcycle now plagued Ramadan. He now rode the bus to the office, heading towards the Secretariat. Ramadan began to suspect that fate's twists were starting to dent his life. He even filed a report at the police station, but a lost item is God's property. Has anything given to God ever returned?

Ramadan, swallowing the bitter pill of patience, continued his daily bus commute. He worked at the office like an ox yoked to a grinding mill. About ten days passed when the court requested a report on a particular file from him. That file hadn't even been presented for a hearing a few days ago. Ramadan searched through the entire cupboard, but the file was nowhere to be found. If it were there, he would have found it!

He checked Naseer's cupboard files, but it wasn't there either. This new trouble greatly frightened Ramadan. Whenever he found free time from work, he would scour the corners of the court and the room, searching for the lost file. When the file remained missing, Ramadan stood in the veranda, contemplating turning the entire Hall of Justice upside down. After much thought, he finally realized that it was the same file Naseer had given to the bearded lawyer. He rushed to Ahlmad Naseer, who was sitting in his room. His hope was rekindled that the file would now be found.

"Brother Naseer! Do you know the names of those lawyers who came here a few days ago, causing a ruckus?" Ramadan asked his colleague Naseer, like a traveler nearing his destination.

"I don't know them. Lawyers hang around here like crows. They're all the same. How can one remember everyone's name?" Naseer replied to Ramadan. Hearing this, Ramadan's mouth fell open. He felt as if his intestines were about to come out of his mouth. Ramadan no longer had the courage to ask Naseer why he had been so cordial with those lawyers that day. Ramadan's last thread of hope broke.

Ramadan was the record keeper of his court. When the file could not be found, an inquiry was launched into the loss of the file, with Ramadan as the subject. One of the parties in the case had also complained that Ramadan had taken money and deliberately misplaced the file. The inquiry began, and Ramadan plunged into a flood of troubles. Ramadan pleaded his innocence extensively, but he could not escape the responsibility for the lost file. All his colleagues advised him to appeal to the party who had filed the complaint. Ramadan went to their house and pleaded, but they ran away upon hearing his request for help. He also pulled strings through recommendations, but nothing came of it.

Who gives up a cucumber that has fallen into their hand? He was not Ishmael, son of Prophet Abraham, who was spared from the knife. When his friends found out, they began to advise him to make offerings. Ramadan had no other recourse left, and he began to frequent shrines. Ramadan became consumed with worry that if he lost his job, his household would not last even a single day. This job was his Saraswati, his goddess of fortune. Just as every salaried employee lives, bearing the burden of their job like Sisyphus, he too was living. Ramadan distributed rice at Data Darbar, and offered scraps of meat at the shrine of Billiyan Wali Sarkar. Someone mentioned the name of Kaanwan Wali Sarkar (Saint of Crows), and he went there too. He offered a lamp of clarified butter there to ignite his fading hope. When hope was about to break, he would hear of another saint's miracles, and the breaking thread of his hope would be re-tied. A portion of his salary began to be spent on charities. Statements from witnesses began to be recorded in the inquiry, and Ramadan began feeding not only birds but also fish. Now, even his wife's tongue was becoming bolder. The more she spoke, the more firmly Ramadan held his silence. Ramadan continued to believe that God was testing him, and he would emerge from this test as a swimmer before drowning.

"God does not oppress His servants," he had grown up hearing this. The burden of office work already weighed heavily on him.

"Don't worry! Honesty never loses," all his fellow employees would tell him to comfort him, and this would strike straight to his heart, as he had no doubt about his own honesty.

On Sunday, Ramadan went to the butcher to buy minced beef. Three or four other men were sitting near the butcher's block, sharing newspaper pages and reading them. The butcher, too, had caught wind of Ramadan's inquiry.

"Ramadan Bao! Small and big troubles keep coming. Don't lose heart. God will do good," the butcher tried to console Ramadan.

Hearing his words, Ramadan broke into a sweat. He realized the news had spread throughout the neighborhood. He worried that his neighbors might mistake him for someone who took bribes. The butcher kept watching Ramadan. He understood Ramadan’s predicament and decided to help him.

"You should offer crow meat to the Ravi. Then see how God sets things right," the butcher encouraged Ramadan. The people sitting nearby also began to give examples to corroborate the butcher's words. The men present there vouched for crow meat as the ultimate remedy, from treating barren women to curing cancer patients. They weren't just telling Ramadan stories; they were sharing their faith with him. Ramadan also saw truth gleaming in their words. And how could he not? In homes where remedies are scarce, the blood seeping from crow meat is often the last resort. Ramadan resolved that he would visit the Ravi the next day after work.

The next day, when Ramadan arrived at the office, he received a message from the inquiry officer to be present at twelve o’clock for the verdict. By noon, all the strength in his body had drained away through sweat. His future had become a question mark. He learned that day how difficult it is to pass each minute. He began to feel that the idea of time moving at a steady pace was a lie. When life begins to wear a person down, time slows its pace. Such moments crush a person before moving on. Ramadan, struck by misfortune, was ground down like a grain of wheat in the slowly turning millstone of time. At twelve o'clock, he stood before the inquiry officer. The inquiry officer was concerned with finishing his own file. Ramadan was just a crushed grain to him.

"From the testimonies, it has been proven that you deliberately lost the file. You have failed in your responsibility to protect the file. Why should you not be dismissed from your job? Submit your reply by tomorrow." The inquiry officer delivered the verdict, throwing it in Ramadan's face.

Ramadan couldn't even comprehend what was happening to him. He walked out of the inquiry officer's room, and there stood the very person who had filed the complaint against him. Ramadan had seen the lawyer standing with him somewhere before. Suddenly, Ramadan remembered the hands that had reached for his collar. His heart yearned to claw at that lawyer's throat, but he moved on, thinking it was useless now. He didn't want to get into any new trouble.

Now, crow meat was his last hope. He went straight from the courthouse to his neighborhood butcher. The butcher, seeing him, immediately thought of crow meat. When Ramadan approached him, "crow meat" spontaneously escaped his lips. Ramadan handed the butcher the money and, dangling the plastic bags of crow meat in his left hand, walked towards the Ravi. At the Secretariat stop, he boarded a bus and got off near the Ravi bridge. Beneath the bridge, near the riverbank, a few boats lay overturned, awaiting the monsoon rains. Ramadan thought of Muharram. In his neighborhood, for ten days of Muharram, people mourned Imam Hussain by overturning their cots in sorrow. Where once the gushing waters of the river instilled fear, now the sand sparkled like glass in the sun. Kamran’s Baradari, Jahangir’s Tomb, and above the river, owls and crows flew amidst each other.

Ramadan walked until he reached the middle of the bridge and stood by the railing. There, children and women, dressed in faded clothes, their faces smudged with dust and smoke, waved bags of crow meat in the air, shouting, "Crow meat! Crow meat!" In the sky, owls and crows flew in a frenzy, calling out loudly, just as cars on the Ravi bridge impatiently honked their horns, trying to push forward. Some passengers on bicycles and motorcycles stopped along the footpath to buy crow meat. The sellers, after putting the money in their pockets, would swing the plastic bags around the heads of the cyclists and motorcyclists and then toss them into the river. Owls would swoop down in mid-air to snatch the crow meat. Dogs standing on the dry riverbed would also leap to snatch morsels. Ramadan watched this entire spectacle. A Suzuki Mehran car also pulled up and stopped there. The cars behind honked loudly, but the Suzuki driver remained unaffected. A sick man, fifty or sixty years old, got out of the car and stepped onto the footpath. He, too, bought a bag of crow meat, swung it around his head, and threw it into the river. Ramadan began to believe that crow meat was the cure for all the illnesses and sufferings of the people in this country.

The easy-going people, who snatched from the poor and gave loans to God, drove on indifferently, honking their horns. Perhaps those rich people's owls and crows had their own territory.

Ramadan held two bags of crow meat in his hand. He swung one bag over his head and tossed it into the river. He wanted to throw the second bag towards the emaciated dogs sitting far away by the river. The gaunt dogs looked at him with eyes that yearned for a miracle. Just then, a motorcycle pulled up beside Ramadan. A young man dismounted and immediately came towards Ramadan. He quickly took the bag from Ramadan's hand and handed him a five-hundred-rupee note. Ramadan kept staring at him. The young man swung the bag over his head and threw it into the river. He then got back on his government-plated motorcycle and drove away. Ramadan thought he was an employee like himself, whose last hope was crow meat. Ramadan was greatly surprised that those who squabbled over every penny on pushcarts weren't even haggling over the price of crow meat. Ramadan concluded that the hope of saving a sinking boat has no price. Ramadan put the five hundred rupees in his pocket and walked home with the firm belief that after sacrificing the crow meat, his troubles would pass.

The next morning, Ramadan, wearing the turban of hope, set off for the courthouse. He had also written his reply to the inquiry officer. He still believed his job would be saved. The certainty of innocence doesn't allow hope to break. Ramadan reached the courthouse and stood outside the inquiry officer's courtroom. After half an hour, when the peon called his name, he entered the inquiry officer's office. The inquiry officer took his reply and put it in the file but, without bothering to read it, delivered the news of Ramadan’s dismissal and sent his recommendation to the senior officer. At that moment, Ramadan, and even the inquiry officer, felt anger towards the lawyer who had taken the file, but he swallowed that anger. Throughout his life, everyone had taught him the lesson of suppressing anger. Ramadan felt that perhaps the God of the poor was stingy. Abundant treasures, yet nothing to give the poor. Hearing the decision, Ramadan walked out and began to walk on the footpath along the roadside. Ramadan looked at the sky, hazy with dust and smoke, and the whole world seemed covered in dirt. Reaching home, he lay down, wrapped in a blanket of silence. The darkness of that night devoured the light connected to Ramadan’s past.

Morning came, and Ramadan, after looking at his son sleeping beside his wife, left the house. He bought bags full of crow meat from the butcher for five hundred rupees and headed towards the Ravi bridge.