The Naked Beggar: And Other Stories

Copyright © 2015 Zeeshan-ul-hassan Usmani.

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Zeeshan-ul-hassan Usmani

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4917-8343-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-8344-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015919141

iUniverse rev. date: 11/16/2015

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Curiosity defines the struggles of an ordinary man to come to terms with extraordinary circumstances in order to discover the exact nature of his identity. Though the characters are fictitious, the land, with its convoluted internal struggle as well as its abysmal darkness of ignorance, corruption, illiteracy, and its defiance and obstinacy to come to terms with this malevolence is very much real. The story is about Abdullah, who seeks to interpret his identity both as a man and as a Muslim in a pure land that, sorrowfully, has not acted as purely as it proclaims.

Curiosity is not only a social reformist novel but also a seething satire on modern Pakistani society. It is the story of a traveler who begins his journey without a destination in mind. A traveler who hitches a ride on any caravan that is headed anywhere. It is only at the end of the journey that he realizes that it was the wrong caravan and the wrong destination. All of the people whom he yearns would join him do not share his passions nor his visions to make the land as pure as it could---and should---be.

Curiosity is full of characters that litter the streets, the educational institutions, the religious centers, the bureaucracy, and the decision-making powerhouses of Pakistan. If you have been there, you have probably met dozens of such characters. If you are not familiar with Pakistan, come and understand the purity of the country through the eyes of Abdullah, who struggles not only to find his self in this maze of a society but continues to hope that light will eventually shine on this corner of the world, too.

Zeeshan-ul-hassan Usmani

Zusmani78@gmail.com

A bizarre predicament is at hand.

Knowledge is threatened by enlightenment.

To all my readers:

With you I have an eternal bond.

I am the spectacle, you my spectators.

I have been lost forever in the search for self.

Oh God, reveal my self to me now.

U nder the searing May sun, life in a small inner Sindh village whimpered ahead at a pathetic pace. Though no Pakistani could completely escape the agony of a blistering sun, it was the villagers who bore it on their backs and in their souls throughout most of the year.

These desolate masses in the thousands of small towns and encampments scattered around the metropolitan areas, near forgotten in their struggle to reach tomorrow. Their thatch-roofed mud homes baked and festered and crumbled along the narrow dirt roads left barren at this, the worst hour of the day. Even the animals had taken shade under trees or between the crops of the farms surrounding the villagers' homes. The only traffic this afternoon came from the naked footprints of Fazloo, dashing from his home to get the midwife.

He knew that the only thing the rotund, middle-aged woman would be able to provide was moral support due to her 'experience' assisting with deliveries in the village. Otherwise she was as knowledgeable about the complications of childbirth as Fazloo himself. If a child born in her hands lived, it was merely his or her luck, and perhaps because of this, the midwife always collected her fee prior to the birth.

Fazloo blinked against his sweat and forced himself to press on. His wife had already survived four pregnancies, which he knew could likely be the extent of their blessings. Their children, however, were not so blessed, each having withered and died within only a few months.

As Fazloo rounded the final corner, he felt the desperate pang of hope that the midwife would agree to see to his wife without the fee in advance. His work as a ploughman for the God of the villagers hardly afforded them two paltry meals a day, let alone any luxuries.

In the villages these notorious landowners were the only deities worthy of worship. Allah was only to mention and remember with reverence. The landowners were the true providers, doling out enough grain for one meal a day along with occasional second-hand clothes and a few extra coins if the mood struck them.. They kept the light of literacy, awareness, and enlightenment far away from the dirt roads and the minds of the simpletons who resided there. In fact, no one in Fazloo's village had even heard---or dared to enquire---the landowner's true name. They knew him only as Wadera-saeen, the same as his father and countless generations past.

Today, Fazloo was not only worried about the fee for the midwife. The closest doctor was in the city, nearly seventy miles away. If there were complications---or even if there weren't---there was the frightening possibility that he could lose both the child and his wife in the coming days.

He knew he couldn't go to his friends for help. They were all as well off as he was. And with Wadera-saeen out of the village on one of his usual trips to the city, Fazloo knew that asking for money behind his back from one of his cronies would only be begging for trouble. Fortunately the midwife took pity on him and agreed to come along with the promise that he would pay her in installments later.

When they arrived at his house, a small cluster of village women were already there, waiting in his barren dirt yard. The midwife hurried inside the little one-room abode and got to work.

For what seemed to be an interminable afternoon, Fazloo paced and sat and stood again and generally ignored the chatter and speculation from the gathered women. Then came the wailing of an infant from inside, and Fazloo froze in his steps. His heart leapt then dove deep into his stomach when the midwife emerged, wiping her brow and delivering the good news of a son.

Fazloo could barely smile. The women congratulated him and immediately scurried inside. With her work done, the midwife left, but not before reminding Fazloo of his promise to pay her.

Fazloo sat on a rickety stool outside, still unable to figure out whether to be happy. With this, his first son, he should be overjoyed. But he had no food to feed him or clothes to clothe him, and he couldn't bear the thought that he too may waste away and die before reaching his first birthday.

When he felt completely at a loss, Fazloo decided to go and see the molvi in the village's only mosque. When he arrived, he removed his slippers and peeked inside, glad to see him present. He went inside in a state of total obedience and sat on the jute-matted floor. The molvi was in his late fifties with a sharp nose and beady eyes that lacked warmth. The gray of his beard and hair was colored a fiery red with henna.

Molvi-sahib, Fazloo bowed his head, I have been blessed with a son today. Can you suggest a good name for him? But please make sure it is one that will guarantee his life, for as you know, my four children before him have died. He took the molvi's hands in both of his, touched them to his eyes with utmost respect, and kissed them.

Look Fazloo, replied Molvi-sahib, You know I don't like to hear good news without sweets or fruit. I will also have to make special invocation for the child's long life. It will probably require prayers in your name for forty days and an amulet for the baby. Considering the state of your poverty, I shall only charge you fifty rupees. Now run along and come back with the money and the sweets. By that time I would have thought of a good name for the child.

Fazloo was devastated. But Molvi-sahib, he stammered, I don't have a penny to give. Wadera-saeen is in the city, so I cannot even beg him to help me. Just suggest a good name for my son. Please. And may Allah have mercy on you.

The molvi's eyes narrowed, fingers swiftly turning the beads on his prayer bead string. In that case, let the child be nameless. And it is highly likely that this child of yours will remain nameless and insignificant both in this world and the hereafter.

Fazloo didn't know what to say. He sat in front of the molvi for a long time hoping that he would eventually take pity on him. But Molvi-sahib remained engrossed in his prayer beads with his eyes closed. Finally, Fazloo stood up and left.

Nameless?! Fazloo's eyes brimmed with tears as he walked back home. When he arrived it was evening, and his wife and child were both asleep. He went outside to the woven rope bedstead in the yard and stared at the sky.

Allah-saeen, he murmured, "the molvi says my son will remain nameless. But Allah, I beg you to make this prediction wrong. I beg you to grant my son life and a name in your world. Take care of him, have mercy on us, show compassion toward me and my family. My creator, today I hand over this 'nameless' child in your care."

Fazloo remembered how his father used to speak with Allah every night in secret. Fazloo would watch him from afar, unable to pick out any of the words and unwilling to sneak any closer and risk getting caught.

But one day his father noticed him and called him over. He told him that though they were bound to the landowners forever, their real allegiance was to the one in the skies who owned them all. That was when Fazloo too started talking with the Creator. But, just like his father, he made sure to keep these conversations secret. His father had told him never to mention it to any of the villagers, lest word reach the fiercely jealous ears of Wadera-saeen.

Fazloo was a dutiful son and never questioned his father. He just listened and then fell obediently into his footsteps as he grew older.

I have no complains from you, but lord of the universe,

This world has aggrieved this human tremendously.

Time slowly passed and days turned into weeks, weeks into months and months into years. Fazloo maintained the same regimen of working on Wadera-saeen's lands and praising him in public, as was expected of his existence. After getting home, he played with his little son as much as his exhausted body and soul allowed.

Before he knew it, his son had turned eight. The child resembled his mother both in features and coloring, with the deep, gray eyes of his maternal grandfather. Since the day he was born, they shone with an intelligence that often disturbed Fazloo. It was like there was a wise soul trapped inside the small, thin body. However, in their gratefulness to Allah for having granted their child life Fazloo and his wife never realized that the little boy was still without a name. They had only referred to him as Chota or small one.

Chota was a smart child and had started to speak fluently at two years old. His mind worked at the speed of light, and even as a boy of eight he had a contemplative air about him. Unlike other children his age, he didn't take much interest in playing hide and seek or catch or taking a dip in the village pond. Wisely understanding that food was a meager commodity in their house, he ate what he was given and never asked for more, not even a dried crust of bread.

Fazloo often took his son to meet Wadera-saeen when he went to work the fields. This was how his own father, Chota's grandfather, had introduced him to the ways of the life that he was to follow forever.

Whenever Chota was around Wadera-saeen he would ask a lot of questions. The drastic difference in the lifestyle of Wadera-saeen and his men perplexed the young boy, and he wanted to know the reasons behind every disparity. Whereas this never-ending string of questions quickly grew tiresome to Wadera-Saeen, they scared Fazloo who tried to put an end to them through love, stern admonishment, and the occasional slap to the head. But Chota's questions continued at the same steady pace.

Once on an extremely hot and humid summer evening Fazloo and his wife weren't able to sleep and sat talking about their misfortunes. The sound of their voices woke Chota from his sleep.

Baba, he asked his father, Why are you always complaining about something?

It's because I am sad and sorrowful.

What is sorrow? Chota was intrigued that his father would actually engage him in conversation so late at night. It must be an important matter if he wasn't simply told to go back to sleep.

Son, replied Fazloo, sorrows are something that only a poor man has.

Who gives you sorrow?

The rich, replied Fazloo.

Why?

Maybe it makes them happy to give us sorrow.

Then who gives sorrow to the rich?

I don't know! Fazloo was too tired to give his tone any sting. Just please be quiet and go to sleep.

Baba, Chota wasn't done. What is happiness? I mean ... what does it look like?

Happiness is what you see on the faces of the rich people when they're smiling, sighed Fazloo. He knew he couldn't shut up Chota until his curiosity was satiated.

So how do plants and animals get happy?

Animals are happy when you see them jump and frolic, and the happiness of plants is in their flowers.

But baba, Chota looked confused, why do we break off these flowers then?

By now, Fazloo had had enough. As usual, he made a dour face, turned his back to his young son, and pretended to be asleep. It wasn't just Fazloo but more or less the entire village who was fed up with Chota's incessant and seemingly random questions. These simpletons had never bothered to ask their own questions let alone know how to deal with his. They just accepted their fate and lived their lives like the very cattle they tended. In their monotonous, dull lives, Chota was nothing but a nuisance who threatened to overturn their humdrum raft of a tedious existence.

The group of villagers with whom Fazloo often sat together at night had already told him not to bring his satanic son with him. Chota drove them all crazy with his questions and was simply considered to be a waste of their time. Molvi-sahib was especially fed up with Chota. Either the child reminded him of the sweets and the fifty rupees his father never delivered, or he was tired of the challenge the questions posed to his authority. But either way he could not stand the young boy in his presence, and he did not keep this a secret from Fazloo.

If poor Chota had one friend in the entire village, it was Deenu-chacha,. Deenu was in his mid-fifties and lived alone in his tired little mud house. No one knew where he had come from. He had migrated fifteen years ago from some other village and set up shop as a cobbler. After that, he had a small cart of mangoes and vegetables. And then he was the village barber. But whatever his occupation du jour, he was an honest, harmless, and quiet old man who Chota would enjoy sitting with after finishing his chores at home and at the grand residence of Wadera-saeen.

One day when he went looking for Deenu-chacha, he found him in a deep reverie, eyes closed, near a dried up, old well in the village.

Deenu-chacha. Chota shook his arm. Deenu-chacha, are you listening?

Deenu opened his eyes, casting a perturbed look down at Chota. What is it?

Chacha, Chota pulled himself up onto a large rock and sat. Why have you done so many different things? Why don't you just stick with one type of work?

This caught Deenu off guard. It was a question much greater than the boy's age. Look, Chota. Deenu paused to gather his thoughts. Only Allah provides our livelihood. These tasks, these different trades, are just excuses for getting that livelihood to us. Every time I get very good at doing something, I start getting the thought that I can now earn for myself and feed myself. With this thought, my connection with Allah starts to break, so I stop doing that work.

Oh, Chacha! Chota smacked his head in frustration. Sometimes you make no sense at all.

Well my boy, there are a lot of things I know that won't make sense until you've seen as many years as I have.

Ok. Chota furrowed his brow. Chacha ... do you know what my name is? Everyone calls me Chota, but that isn't a real name. I am a young man now, and I help my father in the fields. I ought to have a real name.

Well, we all belong to Allah, replied Deenu. He is our creator. Why don't you name yourself Abdullah, servant of Allah?

Jubilation flashed across Chota's face. He sprang up from the rock and gazed skyward. Abdullah! he cried. My name is Abdullah!!! He dashed back toward his home, repeating the name over and over.

When he entered the house, still screaming out his new name, his parents gave each other a knowing look. They had been holding out hope for Wadera-saeen to name their son, creating a soft corner in the man's heart for him. But Wadera-saeen had not indulged them, nor did he seem to warm to the child, and by proxy, them. Now they knew they could wait no longer. A joyful madness at this new name had enveloped their boy. Abdullah was there to stay.

Abdullah woke knowing well the pain that began to twist in his stomach. Usually, when he went to work in the fields with his amma and abba, he was given a piece of bread with some pickles. And when he did other work, his parents would bring him back a portion of theirs. However, the previous day, the ration was exceptionally meager, and they had not been able to bring anything back for him.

Abdullah left the house hungry and went to the fields with Fazloo. When they stopped to offer their morning greetings to Wadera-saeen, as all the farmhands were required to do, they found him sitting in his opulently landscaped grounds among his pet eagles and dogs. Abdullah said his salam and touched the man's feet as required.

Boy! he addressed Abdullah with disdain. Yes, what is that you have been named? Yes, Abdullah. Run to the kitchen and get meat for the dogs. After they are done eating, take them both for a walk and then give them a bath. Poor creatures accompanied me on the hunt yesterday. They are very tired.

Abdullah got up without a word to do the chores asked of him. His mind wove a thick web of questions, but he managed to keep his curiosity under leash, thanks to his father's most recent admonishment. Why? I'm tired too! I haven't had anything to eat since yesterday. Are the dogs of the rich more precious than the children of the poor? Doesn't he see the state we are in? Is my Allah different from Wadera-saeen's Allah?

The roller coaster of questions in his head revolved and accelerated as he tended to Wadera-saeen's dogs. By the time he finished, he could no longer contain himself.

Wadera-saeen-sahib, he tried to be as polite as he possibly could be. Could I ask you a question if you don't mind?

Go ahead, Wadera-saeen spoke with closed eyes and heavy lips, thoroughly enjoying a head massage from a servant. Though your questions displease me, I happen to be in a good mood today. So you may ask whatever you wish.

Wadera-saeen, who am I? asked Abdullah, his little head bent obediently.

Idiot! Wadera-saeen replied. You're my servant! Who else would you be?

Then who is my father?

He is my servant too, replied Wadera-saeen, no less irritably.

And who was my grandfather?

The irritation in Wadera-saeen's voice gave way to pride and conceit. He was also my servant.

But there is something I don't understand, Abdullah said. We have been servants for generations, and you have been a lord for generations---

That is indeed true. Wadera-saeen's tilted his head toward the kneading hands.

Then, Abdullah continued, why is it that none of your work, I mean the nature of your trade or your success as a landowner, affects the people around you? We may not become doctors or engineers, but we should at least be able to earn enough money to eat two meals a day.

Wadera-saeen turned to see Abdullah staring straight into his eyes. The venomous hate in the young eyes was unconcealed, and he could feel it transferring into his very veins. He could smell the mutiny in the child. Grand treason. He leapt from his chair and screamed for his sentinel.

Guards! Get here you dogs! he bellowed, Teach this good for nothing bastard a lesson! How dare he make such talk with me?

Two burly men leapt upon Abdullah, beating him up like a rag doll. A maidservant watching from inside ran to get Fazloo from the fields. When Fazloo arrived, horrified, he immediately put his head on Wadera-saeen's feet.

Wadera-saeen looked down, then back to Abdullah, and lifted his hand, signaling his men to stop.

Forgive him my lord, Fazloo cried, his voice shaking with fear. My son is mad; he is a lunatic. The entire village knows that. Please forgive him. It is hot and the heat goes to his head. He is foolish and only a child. Please forgive him!

Abdullah lay crumpled on the ground. His clothes, already in poor condition, were in tatters now.

Take your loathsome boy away from my sight, Wadera-saeen spat. If I see him on my property again, I'll have him cut into pieces and fed to my dogs!

Fazloo helped the semi-conscious Abdullah to his feet and nearly dragged him all the way home. His wife, upon seeing her beloved son in that state, could not control her crying.

However, despite the fierce beating, and on an empty stomach as well, the light in Abdullah's eyes had not diminished. His eyes now held a fire even more intense than before.

Fazloo ran to get Deenu to check the boy for broken bones. Deenu hurried back, and the two men went over his entire body, pinching and prodding until they were ultimately relieved to find that his bones were spared.

The cuts and bruises would heal, but they couldn't see the deeper wounds that had reached all the way to the young boy's heart. They didn't know that Abdullah's physical pain, his throbbing wounds, the taste of the blood that had now dried and caked on his lips, his emaciated body peeking through the tattered clothes and his swollen eyes were in reality representative of his actual feelings.

Abdullah spent the entire night in severe pain and could only catch a few fleeting moments of sleep. Amma had used all the home remedies that she could think of for his pain and bruises. Both she and Fazloo suffered through the night with their son.

Fazloo, for one, could not hope to sleep. He felt like someone had broken him from the inside. Seeing Wadera-saeen's guards pounding on his son in front of his eyes, standing over him like vultures ready to pick the meat off his young bones, he only realized how helpless he was to stop or even verbally rebuke them. As his wife sat with his suffering son inside the tiny room, he lay on his bedstead, staring at the sky and conversing with his Lord.

Abdullah sat up early the next morning despite his extremely uncomfortable night. Though his tender body was discolored with bruises and scabbing wounds, he had the usual serene smile upon his face. His mother, elated to see him up, told him not to get out of bed. She immediately left and brought him back a hot, fried paratha. Abdullah looked at it in surprise, a rare treat that should not be found in their house.

Where did this come from, Amma?

His mother set it down in front of him. Never mind where it came from, she said. Just eat.

He looked from it to her and narrowed his swollen eyes. Have you brought this from Wadera-saeen's kitchen?

Just be quiet and eat, she said, turning her face to hide the tears springing to her eyes at the mention of that man.

Abdullah had no desire to eat the bread, but seeing the grief on his mother's face, he obeyed. When he was finished, he put on his father's old shirt, its length and sleeves cut to his size, and left. He went straight to Deenu-chacha's house. If he could pour out his heart to a good friend, it would help him feel better.

Deenu opened the door, took one look at Abdullah, and smiled. This infuriated Abdullah. Some friend you are! he said. I got beat up, and you're smiling?

Ah, young Abdullah. But this is the heat and pressure that eventually forms a diamond, Deenu replied with a nod.

Abdullah shook his head. Stop this confusing talk, Chacha. I've come to ask you something really important.

Go ahead. Deenu could see that the boy was troubled.

Whatever am I going to do with my life now that I am no longer allowed on Wadera-saeen's land? asked Abdullah. You do know what happened yesterday?

The whole village knows. Deenu suppressed another smile.

Does Allah also know?

Of course! He is the lord of all matters, the all-knower, the all-hearer. He knows what happened yesterday and all yesterdays past.

Then why didn't He come to save me when Wadera-saeen's men were beating on me? You said Abdullah meant 'Allah's slave.' So why didn't He come to save me?

Allah conceals a good behind every calamity that befalls us. Perhaps He no longer wished you to work on Wadera-saeen's land.