One for Love

Ahmed Qureshi was taken aback by the roadside brimming with banana leaves and flowers yelling to be bought out by the end of the day. Yet another puja and yet another end of reason on the streets. He was bankrupt, his only living relation in this world, his mother too, died last month, unoperated upon. And still, he could not get over the time when things were merrier in his community school, as he struggled for the pass marks and for Nita's attention. 

Nita Das was the daughter of a tailor. When they were in the tenth standard, she had confided in him that all she wanted to do in life was to become a beautician, visit rich people's houses and touch rich people's wives and beautify them with rich creams. She never obliged that she loved him too. He was clear he did. It was a mismatch of the first order, of course. And it turned supreme with the rising debts and death of his mother.

Somehow, he thought, as he saw the people bargain over offerings, no one ever took his love seriously. Perhaps because I never thought it is necessary to make believe. Qureshi wanted to fetch a work, quite desperately. He wondered if one of the sellers might need him to get more leaves. In the process he overheard strange things. Of which, the one which struck him the most was the one he set to work up on immediately.

He ran back home and fished out from his broken jar some remaining notes kept away just for the cause of a deluge, or something more worse than death by hunger. He counted eight rupees and ran to the barber. 'I have eight rupees, Babu. Tomorrow I will give you five more. Trust a true Mussalman. Please.'

The barber was bored. Qureshi had nice hair. And this promise made the afternoon interesting. He was in no mood for a brawl and could do with some practice. Qureshi was a happy man. All evening and night he thought of Nita. Courage made him a different man.

With twelve rupees, Qureshi borrowed a cycle ride from Bhaskar bhaiyya. It took Bhaskar a while to recognise the bald Qureshi. He was even more fascinated when he saw him ride away. Funnily, he had a drop down of a hair like a tail extending from the centre of his head. That evening, having performed pujas at about six houses, Qureshi was eighteen hundred rupees richer than his wildest dreams. Plus the grocery and the benefits. He dealt in mute chanting of prayers, and sincerely offering a pure prayer at that.

That night, having faked people, he felt original. He found his true colour, his calling. He could not think of a time he felt more livelier than the lie he lived.