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Habib took out his weathered old phone and made a call, “Jamal bhai? December is here: let’s go and have some good paaya tonight. I will take you out to celebrate. I have finished writing two chapters of my novel.”
“When have I ever said no to paaye ki dawat?” Jamal laughed, “but not at Laadley’s restaurant. He doesn’t make paaya. He serves dog-meat nehari. Arre, how will he know we went to Rahmania?”
Later, as Jamal walked past Laadley’s shop further into the alley, he turned his face away and quickened his pace, but Laadley spotted him from his perch. “Aha, Jamal bhai, you’re going for paaya? Even you have forsaken me for Rahman miyan?”
“Arre, what? How did you know I was going to Rahmania?”
“I saw Habib bhai also pass by, avoiding all eye contact, looking very shy. And now you are going past my shop, without as much as a salaam. I put two and two together,” Laadley said heartily. “Don’t feel bad. I myself eat at Rahman miyan’s when I can’t bear this swine’s qorma any longer. But Rahman miyan is becoming too expensive, Jamal bhai. Unaffordable!”
The old Rahmania hotel was now formally called Al-haaj Al-Rahman hotel. Rahman miyan, its owner, had gone to haj a few years ago and, upon his return, changed the name of the Rahmania hotel to Haji Abdul Rahman hotel and then, finally, to Al-haaj Al-Rahman hotel. People sometimes referred to him as haji saheb, in deference to his having performed haj, but nobody in the old city had taken note of the change in the restaurant’s name. There was a freshly painted signboard that had the new name printed in black across a white background. A picture of the Ka’aba and the Mosque in Madina adorned the top left corner, while two chubby toddlers with rather red lips, attired in white kurtas and black topis, embraced each other in the right hand corner.
Jamal found Habib waiting at a safe distance from the hotel. He often carried a bulky knapsack with him and stood slightly bent under its weight. His pimply face with its scraggly beard lit up in recognition as he saw Jamal.
“Why are you standing here?”
“I am scared to go in alone. Everyone says to be careful of haji saheb. He is always trying to gather information on the sly and inform on the community. Plus he has also become a bore, Jamal bhai. He catches people and starts to sermonise.”
Jamal rolled his eyes. “Achcha? Let’s see,” he said, and strutted inside. He stood in the centre, winked at Habib and then, grinning, caught hold of Arshad, the chief waiter, “Arre Arshad, get us a plate of falafel.”
Arshad smiled too, in anticipation of the apparent punch line, “What is a falafel?”
Jamal started to giggle: “Why have you kept an Arabi name for your hotel if you don’t have any Arabi food?” Arshad looked bemused, but he laughed along gamely. “It’s an Arabi name?” He craned his neck to look at the signboard outside, “I always thought that was in English.”
“Jamal miyan?” the elderly Rahman called out to him from behind his counter. He sat on a wooden chair, with an old wooden cupboard behind him. He locked his money and his account books in it, and also his black sherwani, which he wore when he went out. On his table were a steel flask with his filtered water, and a small coal iron with which Arshad would smoothen out the creases on his sherwani. Haji Abdul Rahman was a vain man.
He also had a stentorian voice. “Arshad didn’t name the restaurant. You should talk to me about these matters. I decided to change the name to make it more in accordance with our culture.” Abdul Rahman looked pompously around him, “Look, with the grace of God, my business is doing very well. Even foreigners come to eat here. But I am not hoarding wealth. That is not allowed in our religion. I am trying to work for the community. Ten years ago I started the madarsa and to this day I am continuing to provide for the madarsa boys – boarding, lodging, everything. I am making sure that they get an Islamic upbringing. Alhamdulillah, we have saved so many of them from a life of crime.”
“You’re surely guaranteed a place in paradise, haji saheb. Some say you’ve saved boys from lives of crime by snitching on them and sending them to jail for a few days, so that they never think of irritating the authorities again,” said Jamal. Abdul Rahman narrowed his eyes and nodded. He pulled a plastic chair towards his own wooden one and gestured for Jamal to sit down. “Come, come sit Jamal miyan. There is so much to talk. You hardly come here anymore. People who are jealous of my success have spread these rumours about me. I look after community boys – they all come to me for help. I have helped clear encroachments on waqf properties. I have spoken to authorities and had extra forces posted in the area to ensure peace during tense times. I have met the local MLA on many occasions to inform him of our problems. I do a lot for the community, but I do it quietly.”
“Haji saheb, you’re a true community leader. Why don’t you stand for elections?”
“Nobody is giving tickets to Muslim leaders,” Rahman miyan sighed. Habib had inched closer too. He said softly, “Jamal bhai, won’t we eat?”
“Habib miyan, what have you been protesting about these days? Gaza is over now? Have you found some other issue?”
“Gaza isn’t over, haji saheb. And new issues keep coming up every day.”
“The Quran says that everything is the will of Allah. So what is there to mourn and to protest, hain? See I run a business; I also run a madarsa – one has to learn to adjust. Bend a little, ignore some things. Cannot always be demanding rights, hain? See, if you don’t trouble others, nobody will trouble you. I donated for the temple also.”
“You’re a good Muslim, haji saheb. Laadley has grown a full henna coloured beard under your influence, but he isn’t such a good Muslim as you. He stands up for himself,” said Jamal as he rose from the chair. “Habibi is treating me to paaya. We will go order?”
Rahman miyan’s face darkened. “Jamal saheb, some times you stand up for yourself – and for the community – by being less strident. I don’t like to brag, but what is Laadley’s standing, other than providing an adda for local wastrels?” He got up purposefully from his chair and pointed to an empty table, “Please! When the Day of Judgment comes, let yourselves be found chewing on a boti.”
The boys grinned at each other as they slid on to the bench at the table. “I think we upset him, Jamal bhai.”
“Arre, he upset me even more. This whole place is becoming unbearable I tell you.”
“Two plates of paaya, Arshad!” Habib called out to the waiter. “Jamal bhai, I think you are becoming angry again.”
“What is this novel? The jasoosi novel, murder mystery?”
“Yes, I have written out the characters. Now I have to figure out who will die.”
“Kill him,” Jamal said nodding at Rahman miyan. ‘He is becoming very irritating.”
“Don’t be flippant, Jamal bhai. It’s a proper story. But if I had to kill someone in my jasoosi novel, it’d be that scoundrel Awdhesh Rana. He slapped me for nothing!”
“You’ll go to jail for even thinking such thoughts. Kill Naseeban’s idiot husband; nobody would care. And make Salman the murderer. Again nobody would care.”
Arshad brought two bowls with oily gravy spilling on to the sides and put them on the table. He placed two fat aabi rotis on top of the bowls, and sat on a corner of the bench next to Habib.
“Jamal bhai,” he said, “Why do you harass haji saheb so much? It gives leeway to others also. He is such a pious man; he has helped so many people. He has literally brought up Abrar bhai and me – took us in as children, trained us, and now I manage everything.” Arshad’s elder brother Abrar was the cook who had made Rahmania famous for its paaya and kababs.
“You know, after the restaurant closes, he first does the accounts and then he prays tahajjud namaz till late. Eats whatever is left and only after he finishes his prayer,” added Arshad admiringly.
Jamal tore off a piece of his roti and dunked it in the shorba, “Every time I come, the pieces of gosht become fewer and fewer. Will the madarsa run on my money only? All the goodwill is going to others, and the money is coming from us poor people.” Habib looked very embarrassed. Arshad made a gesture with his right hand, twirling the wrist with fingers in the air, to suggest that Jamal was uttering absurdities. “That is not Abrar bhai’s fault,” he muttered.
At his counter, Rahman miyan coughed delicately, but loudly enough to indicate that he had also heard Jamal.
As they finished the paaya, Jamal called out to Arshad again, “Arshad bhai, what’s for meetha today?” Rahman miyan had been coughing fitfully in the background. Habib turned to look, “What’s happened to him?” he mumbled.
“Jamal bhai, we don’t keep any meetha, you know that. In fact, I have been telling haji saheb that we should make kheer at least, if not shahi tukda. Everyone asks for meetha after such a heavy meal, but he is very disciplined. He says sugar is bad for health. He has high sugar himself.”
Haji saheb now ambled over to their table, having apparently forgotten the earlier unpleasantness. He evidently practiced what he preached. “Jamal miyan, at your age you should be more fit. You have put on so much weight. Look at me: I inherited sugar, BP and cholesterol from my father, but everything is under check. I am very careful about what I eat. Your chachi sends home cooked food in a big tiffin carrier. Only my asthma is killing me because of this air.”
“Today is a special day, haji saheb. Habibi has started to write his jasoosi novel. Send Arshad to bring some mithai from Shambhu’s shop.”
“Balance is very important in life. I don’t have children of my own; Allah’s wish. Your chachi has one nephew and I also have one nephew. Now she wants me to let him have this hotel as well as the madarsa, but I can’t do that. Balance. I will give the madarsa to my nephew, and this place to her nephew. You know the Supreme Court lawyer who argued the Babri Masjid case? Arre, his interviews are on YouTube. He is very famous. I have met him at his house once. I am going to engage him to draw up the settlement between the nephews.”
“Why him?” asked Habib.
“I want lawyers who have done famous community cases to also represent me.”
“I can also manage Rahmania, haji saheb,” said Arshad.
Haji Rahman looked up, momentarily surprised, “No, you can’t Arshad. You have to be clever; otherwise you will also end up like Laadley. Go get Jamal miyan’s gulab jamun from Bhawani Mishthan Bhandar. Charge him double for it.” He turned to Jamal and Habib and smiled at his own joke.
To be continued…
Shahrukh Alam has been trying to write a murder mystery for a very long time. She has written versions of this story since 2013 and The Wire has published one such version earlier. She is hopeful that she’ll deliver a complete mystery this time. 🤞🏻
