The Protectors & Other Stories

Death is a bitter truth, and life but a mere dream. One lives a protracted life and nurtures an opinion to have lived life to the full, but when the shadow of death looms, it is dismaying to know that life was but a short sojourn. Life seems to have spanned only a few moments; a little plop and the bubble bursts.

My son Jaleel, drew back the curtains on the outer door, and entered the lounge out of breath. “Arif’s dead!” he wailed.

The shock struck me numb. For a few moments I was bereft of my senses. Gradually, I pulled myself together and asked him, “What are you talking about?”

Before the situation became clear, I offered a silent prayer to God Almighty beseeching Arif’s safety. In my mind’s eye, I saw my wife telling me that Arif was all right.

My boy inched towards me and almost cried out the statement: “Arif has been run over by a truck.”

“Lord, you did not answer my prayer.” I complained in delirium. However, when my muddled mind cleared, I sought His forgiveness. My mind still refused to believe it. I blinked back tears, and headed for the backyard where my wife was talking to a friend. Yes, the news was true, but I was unable to accept it. The picture of an innocent boy was recurring in my mind’s eye, paying his respects and asking the same question time and time again: “So, sir, even you believe I’m dead?” My mind does not believe I’ll never see Arif again. When I try to stifle a sob, my heart is smashed to smithereens, and when I console my heart, tears stream down my cheeks. “God Almighty! What’s this relationship! Who is this boy who has taken a firm ground in my soul? A stranger he may be, yet my very own!”

Yes, I can still remember meeting him first as if it were yesterday. It was the month of March, and I was studying in the backyard. It was a clear day; not a cloud in the sky. The sun was shining brightly, but it wasn’t so hot as to cause any discomfort. As if in a trance, my eyelids started to feel heavy in drowsiness and soon I was fast asleep. I was startled out of sleep when something fell down next to me with a thud. Naturally, I was annoyed. I looked on the table, my study notes weren’t there. Half asleep, I tried to grasp the situation, but my mind refused to function. Then I saw a football lying in a corner, and a small boy looking at me from over the common wall. “That’s yours, then?” I said, pointing to the football.

“Sir, I won’t do that again. I promise.”

I was no longer angry, but assuming an angry tone said, “See, what you’ve done to my notes! Now, aren’t you sorry?”

The boy touched his ears as a token of apology.

“What’s your name?” I changed the subject.

“My name is Arif, sir. My dad has been transferred and we’re going to live here.” Then his attention was diverted to his football and he said, “My football, sir?”

“Yes,” I said, “come and get it.”

Arif’s voice had that sweet tone about it that made one think they had known him for ages. I felt he was part of my life. I tried to give this relationship a name but couldn’t. My mind called it a waste of time, saying some relationships can never be named. I understood its futility.

When Arif was leaving with his football, I took a cursory look at him. He had nothing special about him. He was a small, dark-skinned boy with ordinary features. His forehead was broad and flat. He had a fairly big head, and piercing bright eyes gave him an eerie seriousness not normally found in children of his age. I do not like precocious children at all. I believe in childhood adorned with innocence and happiness. In a strange way Arif lacked these, but nature had atoned for it by bestowing on him a magical voice.

“Would you like to have some cashews?” I enquired.

“No thanks, sir. I’m not allowed.”

I was amazed that a child his age was so disciplined as to be putting restrictions on himself. Character building creeps along at a snail’s pace and that too starts when you are no longer a child. Before that you’re normally termed ‘the innocents’. I can vividly recall occasions when my friends and I collected sweets from old women distributing them, by listening to their harsh words and an occasional smack on the back. On weddings when small change was thrown over the heads of the married couple, my friends and I swooped like vultures to get it. Sometimes we got hurt, but it was fun, and we would relate to each of our friends how much we had made that day and what difficulties we had to go through.

Now that we are talking about weddings, let me relate to you something about mine. My family is typically lower middle class believing customs to be religion. I was married in my childhood. Whenever I think of it, it makes me smile. I was thirteen years old and the bride had hardly stepped into her ninth year. I have seen people obsessively worried that they will pass away before their young ones are married. It seems they are on the brink, and death is going to push them into the grave. Nobody cares whether the young couple has an inkling of what married life is all about. As it happens, you and I, ordinary folk, invent these customs, and we adhere to them with religious zeal. Well, I won’t dwell on it. I haven’t undertaken to reform the world. Most people will not listen to you lecturing them anyway.

I am an ordinary young man whose household is entangled in a web of family squabbles. I shouldn’t put my hand in a hornet’s nest. It’s a small matter. My wife wishes my younger brother to marry her sister. My brother has given his consent, but my mother, not at all happy with her daughter-in-law, opposes any such move. My Dad has always taken sides with my Mother. My wife’s concern for her sister’s future is only natural. My Mother claims that one girl having caused so much friction in the family; two together will wreak havoc. Both angles being right, I am at a loss how to cast my vote. My younger brother is so upset; he has declared he will never marry. The house is in turmoil, and I should thank my lucky stars if I get a moment or two of peace.