A Short Story By Amar Jaleel: With a cup of coffee precariously held in his hand, Pretam strolled through scattered household items, books, old newspapersand magazines in my recently acquired apartment in Old Clifton,Karachi. The apartment is situated on the ground floor of BhimjiBuilding, an abandoned ancient mansion that once belonged to aParsi philanthropist, Rustam Bhimji. Soon after the partition of India Rustam Bhimji like most of the Parsis living in Karachi hadmigrated to Bombay, now called Mumbai. His puzzled Bohri andIsmaili friends had failed to prevail upon him from leaving forIndia. They had even argued, “We see no sense in your decision togive up your ancestral city!”Rustam’s simple reply to his friends and well-wishers was,“ Idharko kuch acha naheen honay ka hai. ” (Nothing worthwhile isto happen here). Friends’ response was, “But you are not a Hindu, Rustam!”Rustam had smiled and said, “ Apun Musalman bhi to naheenhai .” (Neither am I a Muslim!). The fortune hunters in search of the evacuee property left behind by Hindus manipulated in getting the Bhimji Buildingdeclared an evacuee property. Official record was tempered inwhich Bhimji was shown a Hindu who had migrated to India. Bhimji got wind of the unsavoury information in Bombay. Hepromptly wrote to the Chef Minister of Sindh that he was not aHindu. He was a born Parsi. Thus, his properties in shouldnot be included in the inventory of the evacuee property. Since then, Bhimji Building has turned into a godforsaken building in thepossession of Sindh Government. Once an example of splendidarchitecture it now gives the impression of a haunted mansion. TheCaretakers of the Bhimji Building unofficially rent out theapartments in the building on their own. I have recently acquired aflat on the ground-floor in the dilapidated building.The decaying building provides befitting backdrop to myfriend Pretam. Every time he turns up he surprises me with hisappearance and approach to life. Last night he walked in myapartment, and straightaway headed for the kitchenette. After awhile he emerged with a cup of coffee in his hand. He ignored me asif I was not there. It was a part of his behavioral pattern. I smiled,and looked at him searchingly.Pretam had unruly beard on his calm and sedate face, andhis precious head was covered with unkempt hair. SeeminglyPretam had not bathed for months. Barefoot, and attired inwrinkled dirty clothes, his shirt was shredded at elbows. He settleddown comfortably on a traditional makeshift bed, and appeared atpeace with himself. Pretam looked at me, and said, “It is nice you finally badegoodbye to Islamabad, and came back to die in your ancestral city.”I smiled. Pretam asked, “How long did you live in exile in Islamabad?”I thought for a while, and replied, “Not a day less than 28years.”“You have out stayed Rama in his exile by 14 years.” With a mysterious smile on his face, Pretam said, “Living in exile for 28years is a fairly long time for a sensible person, although you are not one, to contemplate taking his own life. Didn’t you think of dying honorably?”“When you are surrounded by court jesters in exile you don’tfeel miserable.” I laughed, and said, “Islamabad is the city of national and international court jesters.” “You have returned a rascal.” Pretam sipped coffee, andsaid, “Your dying in Islamabad would have created problems forme. I couldn’t have possibly participated in your parting rituals.”“I would have sent you a return ticket.” “I don’t accept return tickets from a ghost.”I hugged him, and laughed.“When dead, would you prefer to be buried, cremated, or beplaced at top of the Tower of Silence?”“Does it make any difference to the dead?” “You are right. It doesn’t make any difference to the dead.”Pretam sprawled on the makeshift bed. While looking vacantly inthe void he said, “It is in the manner of dying that gives a meaningto the meaningless phenomenon of death.” Pretam and I have studied together in Ratan Talao PrimarySchool, N J V High School, S M College, and then in KarachiUniversity. Studying together and sharing experiences for nineteenyears is more than sufficient a time to galvanize a life-longfriendship. It was during his stay in the college that we, his friendsrealised Pretam had developed distinctive mental perception of the events in history. He looked at everyday happenings from anindependent perspective. After his father, a prosperous sweetmeatmerchant was abducted for ransom, and the police branded his twobrothers spies, his family migrated to India. Pretam refused to leave with his weeping and wailing parents. He stayed back. Hisgreatest desire in life is to die in Sindh. I have often heard himsaying, “Sindh is my Kashi, Sindh is my Mathura, Sindh is myHarduwar.” Pretam sells old books and magazines on a footpath inSaddar. He has no regrets.First thing I did on my return to Karachi after 28 years wasthat I embarked upon a frantic search for Pretam. I looked for himin Ramswami, Bhimpura, Chakiwara, but to no avail. It turned intoa frustrating quest. Intermittently an agonizing thought kepyperturbing me, ‘Is Pretam alive?’ Incidentally I bumped into an oldacquaintance, Joseph who gave me the correct clue to hiswhereabouts. I at last unearthed Pretam from an abandoned Britishstable in the ruins behind the forsaken Racecourse ground. Sincethen after winding up his business at Saddar, Pretam drops in everyevening at my apartment. In supper we eat boiled rice and bakedpotatoes with mango chatni, and talk about the departed friendsand our cherished memories of Karachi during the years gone by.Future appears indistinct to both of us. Last evening as he lay sprawled on the cot, Pretam asked,“Qalandar, why don’t they privatize the intellectual property?”It was then that I suddenly rose to my feet, and walked up to Pretam. I almost pulled him up, and said, “They may, or may notprivatize intellectual property in Pakistan, but we must protect your intellectual property.“Have you gone crazy?” Pretam gave out a loud laughter, andsaid, “Do I have an intellectual property?”I affectionately thumped his head, and said, “It is here, inyour haunted head.”He took it casually, but I did not. Not knowing where to takehim exactly, I took Pretam to Naeem Qureshy a friend, and theclients’ executive in a well-known real estate firm in Clifton. Iintroduced Pretam to Naeem Qureshy, and said, “He is anintellectual. I want to get his property protected.”Naeem pulled out a note sheet, and said, “I am sorryQalandar, we sell and buy property. We don’t have expertise inprotecting it.” I said, “Pretam has a very precious intellectual property thatneeds to be protected.”Naeem left his seat, and gestured me to follow him. In the adjacent cabin he asked, “How come a Hindu has amassed a precious property without arousing the curiosity of the sensitive agencies in Pakistan?”I said, “He doesn’t exhibit his intellectual property.” While walking back to his seat Naeem said, “I will give youthe address of one of the reputable firms that provide foolproof protection to the precious properties, and the persons.” Naeem gave me address and an introductory letter to an officer in a firm that deals with the matters related to property.The dealing officer of the reputable firm suspiciously looked at Pretam, and talked to me. He said, “So you say he owns a precious property that needs to be protected!” “Exactly.” “Is it a bungalow?” “No.”“A commercial plaza, or a plot?” “Oh no.” “Then, is it an industry?” “It is neither an industry, nor a bank.”The puzzled officer asked, “Then what kind of a preciousproperty is it, and where is it located?” “It is my friend’s intellectual property.” I touched Pretam’shead, and said, “It is located here, in his head. ”Pretam intervened, and said, “What Qalandar thinks is my intellectual property, is in fact a dead sparrow’s abandoned nest in my miserable head.
Posted on: Fri, 11 Apr 2014 07:24:33 +0000
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