SUSPENSE STORY OF THE MONTH
Chapter
1: “a maneuver into analyzing”
“Apparently yes, apparently
no!” Ghazal replied obnoxiously, trying to memorize her lines for the school
play, thinking something which had a sudden effect on me and I accidentally
dipped my hand in Melba sauce. As the sleeve had been semi dipped, it wasn’t
entirely messy still I excused myself and walked out of the cafeteria. As I
passed through the library, I saw a teacher with horn-rimmed spectacles on the
bridge of his nose carefully flipping pages of a book entitled “Sama-e-Bekhudi” translating so much so into, “The ambiance of
oblivion” I reckon it was one from the restricted section of the library as I
hadn’t come across such a book entitled so uncommonly even though the library
was really huge. Faint whispers could be heard of students muttering and
murmuring, their minds soaked deeply in the books of their fair interests.
Out of the blue and most
unpredictably, Kashif came whistling out of the library drenched in a paperback
which he held in his hands, obscuring his, though, handsome face. “So soon
have you realized that you come to school for studying, haven’t you Kashif?”
Instead of replying back in a mind-your-own-business tone he replied by a
gestured smile. Okay so that smile really gave me the creeps but I wonder how a
person like Kashif could change. “Mehmud, where are you, I was looking all
over for you” Ms. Jenna shoved me into her office and shut the door behind me.
“Listen Mehmud, I want you to direct the school’s plays” smiling slightly
as she caught her breath hoping I would have an enthusiastic response. “But,
But...” I knew that I can do it but if I directed the plays, then I was going
to be responsible for the negative consequences, no bhai,
that would mean a great responsibility. “Okay, I’ll do it!”
“I mean what’s the harm,
it’s just a dumb play, anyone could play the director” saying it as a
matter-of-factly, waiting for my friend Harun’s idea about this. “I really
don’t think you should do it” was his reply as we entered Chemistry No. 464,
not realizing that Professor Talha had already arrived before us and that we
were late, but instead, he kept on talking and called out to Yaser at the other
end of the class, “Yaser, Mehmud’s directing the plays, isn’t it.... oh
oh” I tugged Harun at the elbow to stop talking but guess Harun didn’t
realize Sir’s presence and, “Mr. Raheim, I would kindly like to know that
have I been invisible all this time, well...” Sir Talha had a very
bureaucratic way of dialoguing that in his satirical approach to students, he
made sure that his message was very well conveyed. Many students of Class No.
464 had believed that Sir Talha has made quite an adequate reputation over the
years that people did appreciate him and vice versa.
Out of the frying pan, into the fire. Out of Chemistry class into Urdu. As we entered room No. 672 on the 6th floor, I knew that today was even a free period as our Urdu teacher had recently retired after his wife’s death and seemed to be under the weather nowadays, out of despair and insomnia. But, I think I spoke too early. At the place of the Urdu teacher, sat the same professor reading the book in the library, holding a different one now, still masking his face. As I entered, the door opened with a creak and a hoarse voice came from behind the book entitled, “Kashmakash ka Bhanvar” interpreting into a philosophical, “The Whirlpool of Perplexity” which you may have realized could be a flamboyant title, but I conjecture what incredulities this book will work. Frankly speaking, today in Urdu class, an intrinsic tang of lime and grapefruit filled the room. From behind the hardback, appeared a face resembling Mamma’s dried fruit compote with a topping of custard sauce subjected to a person of about 60s in a jay-cerulean sherwani, a floppy sou'wester rested on his head revealing a tuft of charcoal-grey hair.
“Greetings to everyone present
here. Now, without wasting any time, I would like to introduce myself. I, my
children, have utterly no concern in all your class grudges and I certainly bear
no significances in whether you attend my lectures or not, I will be schooling
you till your next semester and my humble name would be HammedUllah Kaman, your
new Urdu teacher, any questions?” He spoke that in one breath and got a sigh
of relief after blurting it as though he had learnt his lines well. “Sir?”
spoke out Haris in uttermost confusion. “Yes, Mr. ...” he replied, rummaging
into the desk drawer for something, showing no signs of concentration. “Haris
Kamal” “Please ask your question, I don’t have any concern in your name”
He jeered. Hey, that’s rude! Hello, we have an impolite teacher here, who is
the one responsible for this? Sir Hammed taught us, as though he wanted
everything fair and square and regimented like in a military camp. His language
and qualifications were out of the ordinary, no doubt, but he did need a little
work out on his attitude. But the affirmative revolution was, no one bunked or
misbehaved now onwards.
Three-Thirty P.M meant that school’s over and the starting of homely life. As I exited the school’s building, painted in textures of auburn and chocolate brown and a signboard fixed onto the front wall, labeling “Lauren Haplaufdut High School” I saw the all time familiar makkai- wala selling roasted corn and smoked chickpeas in a stilted cart and fire stove with wood fuel burning in it. “Arre oh, put some of that masala and lemon juice on it” I shouted over the hefty crowd of ten surrounding the makkai wala as though there had been a controversy of demand and supply going on, the consumers buying corn in bulk and getting instantaneous trade discounts!! After getting my packet of corn I handed the chap a five rupee note and he rummaged in his pocket for the change wiping sweat off his forehead, caused by the immense heat. “Bhai, keep the change!” I shouted and ran off to the school bus which was about to leave and Ghazal’s and mine were the last entrances.
Chapter 2: “a veiled
enigma”
“Your sleeve is still stained,
didn’t you swab it?” asked Ghazal eyeing it with a look saying that,
no-stain detergent-can-remove-this-stain-but-oh-maybe-you-can-work-on-it. “Na,
it’s just, who is that?” My gaze fell on a man of about 40s driving out of
the teacher’s parking area, smolder emitting out of his silencer, twisting his
mouth, driving alongside his moustache twitching as he cursed the traffic jam.
“Oh, you probably, don’t know that our commerce teacher, Professor Laiq
Tariq, funny name, ain’t it?” “Huh, yeah right............” I wasn’t
certain if I had seen that man before but it was a strange sagacity of intimacy
that bonded me with him. Who was he and why was he here?
“So, as for your test
following, like... next week.... so...... how much did you prepare?” Lost in
my own thoughts I couldn’t pay attention to what Ghazal said, at last she
became fed up and as her stop was nearby, she jerked the lever and got off.
It’s been since nursery I’ve been in the company of Ghazal, Harun, Yaser and
Fara (sorry, forgot to mention her before) She studies in our class but
regularly bunks all the trifling stuff so usually you won’t much find her in
classes, although she twirls in flying colors. Just as Ghazal left, Fara hopped
on the seat beside me, her apparel, state-of-the-art with hottest trend
statements, I wonder how she buys them as frequently as fashion changes.
“Mehmud, you are still lost in your thoughts, come out of dreamland, yaar.”
“Oh, Fara, so how’d your day go?” “....... got caught bunking today”
she replied snickering, scratching her hair in guilt. “Someday it ought to
happen” I replied matter-of-factly, “Yeah, got me on that” so the day
passed and then came evening bringing new gratifications of her own.
“Mr. Patel, do you realize
what is going to happen if this isn’t stopped immediately” the official had
made his point quite clear when I entered our nasturtium - colored villa.
“Back so soon baccha, where have you
been” Mom welcomed me open-heartedly as though no one were standing here
except us. After Papa and Mama’s separation every dependability came upon
Mama’s head, still she never let us realize the encumber she felt.
“Mr. Ryun, I would like to have a talk with you but later, please, I
need some time to think about it” she said wiping a diverted tear.
“Mrs. Patel this is the limit of everything, every now and then you
send me away asking for ultimatum, we will wait here till your final decision”
he summoned two guards who were with him and the austerity of his tone meant
business. “Mehmud, beta, go inside and call your Papa, and please send
Shamshad outside” Mom heaved me into the house and I sent my elder brother
outside as Mama told me to.
“111-0976” I revised myself
as I dialed Papa’s number after a long time. The bell rang and after something
his secretary, Rhea, picked up, “Patel Fabric Industries, may I help you
please?” “Rhea, call dad, pronto!” My heart leapt with joy as I was going
to talk with Papa after a long time. “Ok....... is this Shamshad or Mehmud?”
“Just give him the phone, Rhea, damn it!” “Just a sec” came the reply.
After a couple of seconds, a man with an established accent came on phone, my
dad, “Hello, is this Mehmud?” “Yes Papa, salaam,
how are you?” “Teak hoon baccha (I’m fine) how are you?” He had an inclination
of vocalizing assertively and both parents still have the dilemma of treating me
as a child, to be given much assiduousness and fondness, but their raison d'êtres
were secreted.
“Papa, Mamma wants you here,
right now, she says it’s an urgent situation.” Did I just speak that in one
go? “Why, is Kiran (Mamma) alright, what’s going on there?” he questioned
worriedly. “I don’t know, some executives are at the house’s entrance and
Shamshad and Mamma are telling them to leave, I don’t know...” Dad did seem
troubled as there came no response from him, the line got disengaged and
Papa’s voice died down. I kept the handset back on the receiver trying to
figure out what’s going to happen next and was it compartmentalized under the
term ‘expected’? Suddenly, the kitchen door opened quickly and Shams (short
form of Shamshad) barged inside holding his head in his hands in tension.
“Mehmud, get me a Cola from the fridge please?” his voiced stifled in
frisson.
I opened the fridge door slightly and glimpsed at all of its contents to figure out a Cola, as it was jam packed. Canned Tuna fish, Beef Lasagna stuffed in a Tupperware dish, Shams’ diet-high nutritional-Greek salad, Savory eggs laid crossly on a salver edging from the sides and Spiced lamb with apricot pottage for dinner, a delicacy of Mamma. Hidden behind the lasagna and salad was a can of cola, beads of cold frost covering it. “Mehumd, could you please quicken it?” Shams groaned, his voice still down. “Right on” I picked up the can and handed it to him who opened the lid with a jerk, spraying some of the cola on his face. “Would you mind handing me a napkin too?” “Sure,” I giggled, looking at his wet face. He wiped it up briskly and drank up the left beverage. Mom entered next, knocking off a table lamp onto the floor, which shattered into pieces. “Ya khuda, (oh god) what is happening? Zindagi (life) is shattering like this table lamp.” she took up a duster to clean it up, when the doorbell rang.