Untitled Novel : [Chapter 2: A House named Firdaus]

There’s a half-cloudy, half-sunny sky above us. Niaz drives with his eyes on the road and a smile on his face as he jokes about me, my life and in general - everything related to me.

“I heard you give foot-massages to those sheikhs back there in Dubai.”

“Niaza, can we just get home quickly. I’ve been really worried about everyone.”

“Oh, okay, okay. Three years, man. Three years. Can you imagine.” he keeps glancing at me.

“Eyes on the road, brother, eyes on the road.” I remind him.

It’s not exactly a nice view outside, at the side of the road everything looks wet, there are still puddles of mud on the road, and every now and then, I see shopkeepers and store-owners getting everything rebuilt, repaired and repainted. In these scenes of reconstruction, I see traces of life returning to its usual rhythm and routine.

“How is little Shahid, has he gone to school today?” I ask, still absorbed in the view outside.

“Yeah. Where do you want to go? My place? Or do you want to go see Ma and Pa first?”

“Um, yeah, let’s go there first. Hey, how much was your house flooded?”

“I told you over the phone na, some of the streets got water-logged in our area, but thankfully, no flooding of the house, thankfully, none.” he pauses, changing the gear.

“The flood mostly affected the low-lying areas in the city, the uptown areas, the other side of Jehlum. Also, the bund broke, and it was pretty bad down there too, not much flooding in other parts of the downtown though. To sum it up- every area was affected, yes, but some more than the others.” he stops the car at the red light at the Jahangir Chowk crossing, I gaze absently at the cars whizzing by on the flyover above us.

“Ma and Pa though, they had to move up to the second floor of their house, the lower one was completely submerged.”

“Yeah, I couldn’t call them for days. I made a billion calls man, but the network was down. I was so worried, man.” I say, recalling how, during the rains, I had desperately tried calling everyone I knew in Srinagar to enquire about my family.

“It’s okay though, brother.” he slaps me on the knee. “It’s all good now.”

“Yeah.”

Niaz stops by a shwarma place, goes up and returns with two hot platefuls in his hands.

“Here.” he says, handing me a plate

“Ahh, just what I needed, I’m starving. But let’s keep these here at the back and go see Ma and Pa first.”

“We can eat while driving.” he says, starting the car.

“No, I don’t think that’s a good idea, Niaz.”

“I can handle it. Watch me.” he munches on a shwarma roll in his left hand while he controls the steering-wheel with his right. I glance at the odometer reading: sixty.

“What are you?” I shake my head hopelessly.

“What am I? Oh, I’ll tell you about myself - I’m Niaz.” he begins, his mouth full, munching on shwarma. “I live off a dead-end job at a bank. My wife hates me. My son hates me too. I have no life, no career, I live in a city with no opportunities- a city that is always recovering, either from floods, or from curfews and strikes. I like shwarma and being a driver for my twin brother, who is always away, giving foot-massa….”

“I told you to stop it!” I say, rather loudly, genuinely annoyed now.

“You sound more irritated in real life than you do on Skype.” he laughs.

We drive in silence; the only sound to be heard is the azaan from the nearby mosques. The call to prayer. Niaz turns on the car radio loud enough to block it out. I look at him, mildly shocked, and he winks at me. This is what I don’t like about him- those moments when his playfulness turns to noncompliance, his crooked sense of humor that I’ve never liked, the way he projects it at me. I’ve hated it. I’ve hated it since as long as I can remember.

“So how have you been, Zaid?” He asks.

“What do you mean?”

“How’s it going for you over there in Dubai?”

I don’t reply for a moment, partly because I’m too tired, and partly because I don’t know the answer to this question.

“It’s going okay, I guess. Nothing special, nothing new or different. I’m a physiotherapist, what do you expect?”

“Made any friends?”

“I have colleagues at the hospital, sure, people at work, and my clients.”

“I said friends.”

I look out the window at the waterlogged streets outside and notice that we’re getting closer to our parents’ residence.

“I wake up, I shower, I go to work, I work, then I come back to my apartment and I sleep. The next day, I wake up and there you go, a frickin’ loop.”

We both laugh.

“So, not many friends, then.” Niaz asks, driving into a side-lane that leads to our parents’ residence.

“Yes, not many friends. There, I speak in English mostly, my Arabic is poor, and my colleagues are mostly locals, you see- so no real socialization.”

“Ha! I remember how poor your Arabic pronunciation was, even during the days when we used to go for tajweed tutorials for Quran recitation, remember? At Karim maulvi’s darsgah, do you remember?”

“Yes I do remember, but it’s not like you were a sweet-voiced qaari either.”

He laughs and slaps my knee.

“But you know what, in a city that big, you don’t really care that much about these little things. I love my work, I earn and that’s enough for me.” I say, talking partly to myself.

“Hm, okay.” Niaz looks at me, as if calculating the expression on my poker face.

“What about you, Niaz, how have you been?” I ask.

He chuckles, “I’m so fine and dandy that God himself wouldn’t need to worry about me.”

“No, really, how’s it going with Shazia bhabi, and with Shahid all grown up, eh?”

“It’s all good, baraadar. I’m thankful for everything. My boy, Shahid, he keeps me sane.” he says, waving his hand.

“Do you still write?” I ask.

“Oh, I do, I do.” he nods, and swallows.

I infer from his lightning-fast reply that he’s lying, but is too proud to admit it- to admit that he doesn’t write anymore. I don’t see why though, because he wrote a lot when we were in college, and was passionate about it.

I don’t question him about it further.

I notice that we’ve reached our destination- our parent’s residence- there it is, the place where I was born, thirty two years ago, the place where I had grown up, the house that my late grandfather had built, and my father had renovated during his youth.

The house named Firdaus, the letters engraved in bold Urdu and English scripts on a marble plate that still sits embedded in the part of the wall close to the gate. There is also a faint trace of a house number ‘HNO 67’ painted on the gate in green, carelessly, invasively - probably by municipality officials.

I stare at the structure in awe for a moment, and ask myself if this is what coming home feels like. No reply comes. From the distance I see a fine layer of dust covering its white-plastered exterior, yet it is there- standing tall and steady.

But Ma said it was about to… I wonder to myself.

Surrounding the house, I see and recognize the houses of old neighbors- and notice that some new houses have popped up too.

Niaz parks the car on the side of the lane.

“There you go, I think you should walk from here. The water will get into the car’s insides if I drive too close to the gate” he says, motioning towards the pool of water near the gate.

“Yeah, you’re right. Okay then, I’ll see you tomorrow, shukriya for the lift.”

He nods at me, smiles a tired smile and drives away.