The Business of Life

Raju stuffed a pan into his mouth, and moved it around slowly, savouring the meetha juices that seeped out. The sound of voices quarreling arose from Habib Ali’s shack, outside which he was waiting patiently.

“The deal was for ten thousand rupees, we have got only five thousand. Where is the remaining?” That was the shrill, demanding voice of Noor, Habib’s wife.

Habib was trying to calm her down. “He gave the ten thousand, but Raju’s fee is five thousand – don’t you remember?”

“Why should we give Raju so much? Why didn’t you bargain with him? Or at least you should have at least bargained for a higher price. This five thousand will not even last us a day. Already we have to pay so much to our creditors, we have had nothing to eat for the past week, and see how the boys look! They are so thin and starved! Their cheeks used to be like Kashmir apples, now they are sunken and pale!”

“It is your fault, woman!” Habib had raised his voice. “Year after year, you are producing girls, how do you expect me to clothe and feed you and your brood? And now, Salma has also been sent home with her children. What do you expect me to do? Can’t you see my bent back and lame leg? Do you want me to go and beg on the streets?”

Raju thought it was about time he stepped in. Carefully aiming a spittle of the red beetle juice at the open, infested, and stinking drain, he banged on the door.

“Ali saab, are we ready to leave? It’s getting late. Sheikh Ahmed will get annoyed!”

Habib appeared at the small doorway after a few seconds, apologetic.

“Sorry, Raju bhaiyya, sorry! I will be out at once”.

Habib called out over his shoulder, “Mumtaz beti! Are you ready? Come, we must get going?”

There was some bustling in the background. Raju could not see much because of the dark interiors. The old haveli was in shambles, held together like a crumbling box with duct tape. It was an uncertain color, the underlying mud bricks showing here and there like a starved man’s ribs.

“Come,come, Mumtaz! Hurry up!” Habib put on his little cap.

Mumtaz clung to her mother, hiding a tear-stricken face in her bosom. Noor tried to break free.

“Mumtaz! You’re a big girl now! You mustn’t cry. Think how lucky you are. Your poor sisters are all languishing in the dirt. You, my dear girl, are being plucked out of this hell-hole and put into the lap of luxury. You will have everything your heart ever desired! Go, my child, may God’s grace be with you! This is the least your parents can do for you!”

Habib caught his daughter’s hand, and pulled her out of the house, as she stifled her sobs. Raju caught a glimpse of her large, tear-filled eyes and quivering lips as she bent her head and pulled her new veil, her hennaed hands wiping away the tears surreptiously. For a moment, Raju’s hardened heart softened. Such a young girl! But then, his business instincts took over.

“Come, Ali saab! Let me take you quickly!”

They wound their way thru the stinking and filthy lanes, and hailed a taxi.

“Hotel Minerva” Raju instructed the driver.

Mumtaz looked outside her window in awe, tears forgotten. It was the first time she was coming so far away from her house. She looked with wonder upon the busy traffic, the colorful shops and stalls, the distant shimmering of the lake, the different smells of the biryani, the fish, the petrol fumes… She soaked it all up like a sponge, her veil slipping off her head, forgotten.

They drew up outside a large grey building, and got out while Raju paid the taxi driver.

“Come”, Raju led the way into the hotel.

“Room 112”, he casually told the bored looking receptionist, who was picking her teeth with a paper clip. She waved him on – he was an old-timer who knew his way around.

They climbed a shallow flight of stairs, and made their way to the far end of a shabbily carpeted corridor.

“Wait here”, Raju told Habib, as he rapped smartly on the door bearing a chipped number plate.

The door was open, so he stepped in, and Habib and Mumtaz waited nervously outside. There was the sound of talk, and then a few minutes later, Raju came out.

“You can come in now”, he said.

The Sheikh was sitting in a moth-eaten armchair, an old wizened man with a long beard, smoking.

“Mumtaz, what a lovely name! Come here”, he patted his lap.

“Go, Mumtaz!”, Habib whispered and pushed his reluctant daughter towards him. As she hesitantly stepped forward, Raju pulled Habib by his shoulder.

“We need to leave now. Sheikh, you know where to find me if you need anything else. Come, Ali bhaiyya!”

Mumtaz turned beseechingly towards her father, crying out silently not to be left alone with this stranger.

Habib could not bear to see her thus, and turned away hastily, wiping the corner of his eyes.

“Farewell, Mumtaz!” he whispered under his breath, as he followed Raju out of the room.

“You want to eat?” Raju lit a beedi.. “You can get some very good biryani down the street."

“Um…” Habib was hesitant.

“Don’t worry, it’s on me”, Raju assured him, as he led him to a small, dingy one-room hotel down the road. He watched as Habib hungrily wolfed down the biryani, probably his first full meal in the past several days and in the next few days to come.

Raju absently fingered the five thousand rupees in his pocket. At last, he would now be able to send his daughter to that convent near his house.