Untitled Novel : [Chapter 4: Cold Nunchai]

It’s a room without a roof, still being constructed and I’m standing against a wall. I see the outline of a handsomely tall man in the corner, I can’t see his face clearly but I know that he’s my grandfather. He seems to be talking to someone outside the window; I walk closer to get a better view. I see that he’s giving instructions to a carpenter outside. There are sounds coming from above us. I look up and see masons laying down thick iron rods that span from one wall to the other. They are building a roof. The vision fades to black and I’m somewhere else.

I’m sitting in a room with a man and woman moving furniture from downstairs and laughing because it’s too heavy.Outside, it is raining heavily, from the window I see everything below drowning in knee-high water. The sky is a raging mass of dark gray, and the raindrops sound like a billion little drums on the rooftop beating in a continuous rhythm.

I ask them where I am.

The man looks at me and says, ‘Firdaus.’

‘What does Firdaus mean?’

‘It means Paradise, don’t you know? You’re in Paradise.’ He replies.

Then he turns away and goes back to arranging the carpets while she helps him. The water outside is rising. I ask them to leave. But they can’t hear me now. I shout at them, but they won’t listen. I scream, but they’re still talking to each other- setting up everything neatly in their crumbling Firdaus, their submerged Paradise.

They are two souls, happy in their oblivion, having resigned to the drowning of the world.

I wake up in a cold sweat; I swear I can almost hear the rapid beating of my heart, pounding madly in my chest.

It was a nightmare, just a nightmare. Calm down, just calm down.

It takes me a minute to get hold of myself.

My neck feels better now; the sleepiness and the fatigue are gone. I glance at my wristwatch beside the pillow. 7 AM. I look around me.

The room looks familiar, it’s my childhood room. There’s an old bookshelf at the other side of the room with a sheet of clear polythene put over it to save the books from dust. I feel an urge to take a look at the books, my old books, but I decide to do that later. There are two cupboards adjacent to it and beside them, a few old iron trunks. A poster of the cricketer Shahid Afridi is pasted onto one of them.

I rub my eyes.

I sit up, push the bed sheets away and get up. I notice my luggage at the foot of the bed, still unopened, the airline’s seal still unbroken. I grab the seal, pull on it fiercely, breaking it in the process. Then I rummage through my haphazardly packed clothes, take out my toothbrush, shaving foam and razor and head for the bathroom.

The water in the shower is soothingly hot. I feel cleansed of all that exertion of the past few days. I wash thoroughly and then dry myself up with a towel. I brush, shave and stare at the face in the mirror for quite some time.

I haven’t looked in a mirror for ages, it seems.

I see the face of young man- a man whose jaws curve inwards in a manner that make him appear tougher than he actually is, a man with acne-scars from his teenage years that won’t go away, he has a face that freckles in the sun, and he feels weirdly conscious about his teeth when he smiles. His eye-color is a struggle between his father’s dark brown and his mother’s bright green. It is neither one of them, but something in between, but other than that, he doesn’t resemble either of them.

I comb my hair backwards, thinking of the nightmare I just had.

I walk back into my room and look for something to wear. I notice a single off-white kurta-pajama in a corner of my suitcase. I don’t usually wear it, being accustomed to formal work clothes. But for some reason I take it out, unfold it, and put it on. Then, I put on a sleeveless sweater over it, and head downstairs.

Ma and Pa are sitting in a room adjacent to the hall, they’re sitting on the farsh, having tea. There’s a newspaper in front of Ma.

“As Salaam Alykum.” I say, out of old habit.

“Wa Alykum As Salaam.” Both of them reply, out of old habit too.

“Do you still offer your five prayers like you used to?” asks Pa.

“Yes, often.”

“That looks good on you.” Says Ma, referring to the kurta.

“You looks good on that.” Says Pa, mocking Ma and me at the same time.

I don’t get his jokes.

I sit down. It feels different from sitting on chairs and couches, but it feels familiar. I pour myself some steaming hot nunchai, put some salt in it, and then some butter. Just the way I like it. I haven’t had a sip in years.

“How’s your knee.” I ask Pa.

“Better”

I must talk to them about it.

“I wanted to tell you something, Pa.”

“What?”

“I took at good look at the foundation of the house, you know, the ken, and I think you should talk to some expert to see what you can do about getting it repaired. It needs to be done as soon as possible.” I say, looking straight at him.

He’s chewing something, and not looking at me.

“How do you repair the foundation without bringing down everything founded upon it?” He says. It sounds less like a question and more like a statement.

“But there are cracks there, how can you be sure about its safety anymore?”

Drumming on his kneecap with his fingertips, he sits there like a man with a mind full of jumbled thoughts, a man who can’t get to the point or identify his immediate problems, because there are too many of them.

I wait intently for his reply; holding my cup, it is a bit colder now. He is looking down at his lap.

“I can help with the money.” I say, looking at Ma. Who is watching a Pakistani serial on the TV, paying no attention whatsoever to the conversation between Pa and me.

“Niaz can help too.” I add, as if to reassure them.

No reply.

“You can shift to Uncle Parvez’s place while we try to fix this. I’m sure he’ll help.” I suggest.

“Uncle?” says Pa, dismissively. “That brother of mine hasn’t called me for years. I don’t need his help.”

I don’t know what to say, so I simply say what’s really bothering me.

“It’s not safe here, Pa.”

He looks at me blankly.

“Don’t you think I already know that?” He says. “You say you want to swish a magic wand and get everything repaired, ha? But you’re leaving in a week? Your leave ends next Sunday, right?”

He’s right.

I am on a leave. Why didn’t I remember this? I seem to have forgotten that I’m here only for ten days.

“Children need space.” He says, leaving me confused.

He looks lost in thought.

Vapors rise up from the cup in his hand. They rise slowly, as if trying to listen to what he has to say before vanishing.

“After you two were born, I spent the best years of my life building this house out of the structure my father had built before it.

I liked every minute of it, you know, it felt good, knowing that I was part of some sort of legacy and that there was something I could pass on to you, and it wasn’t just about the house… as in the bricks and the walls, no, not just the structure… but also the idea of it.

Children need a sense of belonging, you see, and I was happy I was able to give that to my, or at least try my best to.”

He takes a long sip, and then continues.

“Then those children grew up and I knew that I’d done well as a father. I’m sure your mother would say the same. Both of those children turned out to be talented people.”

“I used to think that there finally came a time in a man’s life that he could have to himself, and that after he had performed all his duties and fulfilled all his responsibilities, he could rest. Just lie back. Enjoy his life, smell the flower-hedges of his hard-work that he spent his life planting and looking after.”

“Then this happens… on a random day, the sky doesn’t stop raining, it floods, and that home that he spent half of his life building- the earth beneath it gives in.

Now, that man, he is still the same man, except that this time, he has no will left in him. He looks at the cracks and says to them that he’s tired, that’s he’s done, that he doesn’t want spent the other half of his life putting the pieces back together again.”

He reclines against the takiya behind him, smiling strangely at me; it is the smile of a sane madman.

“We still have time. It’s not that bad yet, Pa.”

I look at Ma for help. Convince him.

“Just enjoy your stay, son, don’t worry. I’ll consult with Rafi Sahab, the engineer. He’s in Jammu for the durbar-move but he’s coming home in a few days.” says Pa, his eyes a little puffy.

Ma’s lost in the TV serial. She is smiling because the woman in the serial has finally found happiness in her life.

She holds on to the plot of a fairytale like a drug.

He wants freedom from his crumbling fairytale.

This is not how I remember them. They weren’t always like this.

“I’ll ask for an extension, the people at work… they’ll understand.” I say, not sure if that’s true.

I drink the nunchai in silence; it has turned cold by now. His words play over and over in my head like a record on loop.

How do you repair the foundation without bringing down everything founded upon it?