The Fool

"Can you hear that noise?", Salman asked.

"What noise?", Rashid replied.

"It is pretty loud", Salman whispered, "Something is breaking down."

"What are you talking about?", Rashid asked, now peeking down from his bunk to see if Salman was okay, "Are you again having those dreams?"

"Dreams come to people who sleep", Salman said, "I am telling you, this is not a dream, it is reality, the war is on, I can hear it."

"Not again, Salman", Rashid gasped in despair, "Sleep. You've got a big day tomorrow."

Rashid went back to sleep. Salman could hear him turn on the bunk above him. Salman closed his eyes or did he, it was dark anyway. He touched his eyes to be sure that they are closed. He pulled up the blanket and tried to sleep. But those noises kept disturbing him. He looked up behind him through the window to make himself believe that nothing was happening outside. He tried to calm himself, whispered to himself that it was all fake, nothing is going on. But is it true? Is the war over? Then why was he still not at peace?

He got out of bed and went out to the verandah for a smoke. He has been in this city for 12 years, but still, it appears alien to him. The cold breeze of the night calmed him down, those sounds of bombarding seized. A few dogs barked from somewhere nearby. His mother called him inside, "Come in now, Sallu", her soft voice whispered loudly, "You don't want bullets catching you."

"There is no one, Ammi", Salman replied, "Just a few dogs."

Salman looked down to see how the dogs tore apart the corpse, meat by meat. Ghastly, thought Salman, but somehow it awed him as he stared down the balcony.

"What nonsense!", his mother rebuked, slapping him on the head and pulled him back inside the room, "What amusement do you get from these inhuman sights, Sallu?"

Salman stumbled inside the room, unable to control his footing due to his mother's pull, "I was trying to …", Salman stopped speaking. There was no one around, the room was empty. Rashid was snoring from the bedroom, the fridge was vibrating, the dogs were barking, but there was no heartbeat or breathing, there were no pulls or slaps, there was a void, but somehow it was filled. Salman missed his mother, his girlfriend, Albina, his hometown in faraway Sar-e Pul, in Afghanistan. But by some magic, they were always there with him, he could sense them, there was no breathing, but if one listened carefully, there was breathing, there was a heartbeat, there were pulls and slaps, only if one believed properly.

The next morning, Salman woke up, as usual, eyes red, darkness under his eyes, he was never sleeping, hence always sleeping. It was 5 am, he had to get to his shop fast, the rush was about to start. Rashid was still fast asleep. He wakes up normally at around 8 am. He drives a taxi. By the time Rashid's taxi would reach the tea stall near Salman's shop, just opposite Sanskrit College, in College Street, Salman would have opened the doors of his shop, wiped the windows, put the books on the window for a show, swept the floors and perfumed the curtains. He had learnt all of this from Ismael Chacha, with whom he had come to Kolkata, after his mother's demise. Salman was not even sure if his mother was dead or not, she went out one morning and never returned for three days. Then Ismael Chacha showed up, packed up his belongings, and took 12-year-old Salman with him on a truck to Kabul; then another truck to Jalalabad; then crossed the border to Peshawar; another truck to Islamabad; from there they took a flight to Jaipur; and finally, a 30-hour long train journey to Kolkata. After travelling for so long, getting far away from the war-torn region to this relatively peaceful place on the earth, Salman was introduced to a bunch of Afghans who stayed there with Ismael Chacha – they were called Kabuliwalas, after a story written by some famous writer.

Salman grew up in Kolkata, with Ismael Chacha, and his son, Rashid. Rashid was always more inclined towards sitting and gossiping and smoking and drinking around with his friends despite the many taunts from Ismael Chacha, and thus, Salman, the more taciturn and obedient of the two, eventually became Ismael Chacha's helping hand. Ismael Chacha had his own book business in the city, every morning he would bring Salman with him, he would wipe a small area on the footpath, spread his sheet, and then arrange the books on the sheet. They did not sell many books and did not make a lavish living, but Salman came in touch with these wonderful writers, whom he read and read and read. And after a while, when the few customers, mainly college-going students came to look at their books, Salman would give them jists of the many interesting books that they had, and somehow, they loved how Salman spoke, maybe because of the enchanting way in which he talked, or his charming voice in an alien accent, or perhaps his fascinating knowledge of those places, people often ended up buying those books, for a lesser and bargained price, but they did sell more than before.

Ismael Chacha would bring more and more books, Salman would read them, and the young refugee, who left school at 12, became more learned and smarter than almost all of his fellow Kabuliwalas. In those books, Salman would look for solace, for some peace, for he was always at a turmoil, a conundrum beating inside his head, since the day he left Sar-e Pol, he had dreams even while he was awake, as a result of which he left sleeping, and when one is not sleeping, one is always sleeping. Those dreams about his home and his mother, his beloved Albina and his life at Sar-e Pol started to get more and more pronounced, but Salman knew that it was all fake, he knew it was all just happening inside his head and was untrue and false at the very core of it all. So, he tried to disregard them as much as possible, try not to think of them, immerse himself in more and more books, for in those books he found a company, a great many friends who spoke to him, all the many characters in those stories, he learnt from them, he grew up, he could distinguish between the right and the wrong, the real and the imaginary, the Salman and the Sallu.

Ismael Chacha passed away last spring. He did not leave his two sons with nothing. There was some money, with which Salman set up his book shop, he and Rashid moved to a new home, Rashid finally came to his senses after his father's demise and found a job too as a taxi driver. Others would say Ismael Chacha's death came as a boon to the brothers as their life took a turn for the better. But Salman knew, his dreams were coming back, he knew it because they were always inside of him. For some reason, despite knowing that it was all fake and flawed and fabricated, he could never let them go, he kept them hidden, but safe.

Salman had no such ambition, but he did want to go back. When or how he did not know. He didn't even know if his house was still standing in Sar-e Pol. He was always at a conflict within himself – to go or not to go back, to believe or not to believe that there are people around him, or whom to believe, the people in his dreams, who come and go at their own will, or the people he saw every day around him, the ones he could touch and feel. For this constant conundrum, Salman basically kept quiet and to himself, minded his own business, and was often found reading and arranging his books, when suddenly, "I did not know you were interested in crime thrillers."

Salman looked up startled. Albina was there, in her jeans, and kameez, also keeping her jeans fitted to her waist was her belt, her favourite belt, that her father had brought for her from his visit to Mecca.

"They do give you a reason to think and ponder", Salman replied, as he paper-marked the page he was reading.

"But you were always inclined more towards the uncovering of the emotional and humane side of things rather than uncovering the murderer."

"And I have realised, that while uncovering the murderer, one does uncover how one has murdered so many others oneself – now, that does fall under emotional growth, does it not?"

"I do not understand", Albina laughed, "Who have you murdered, Sallu?"

"Myself", Salman laughed, "Umberto Eco will make you question that too."

"Nyahh", Albina nodded in disapproval as she sat next to the chair Salman was sitting on, "I still think Mahfouz's portrayal of Kemal is the best uncovering of one's self.

"It's a most distressing affliction to have a sentimental heart and a sceptical mind", Albina quoted as she looked up in praise of Mahfouz, "What a hit!", she smirked.

"I will tell you about a hit", Salman said, as he got up excitedly to reach out for a book from the shelves, while Albina continued her dramatic narration, "Home is not where you were born…"

"Listen to this", Salman interrupted her, "Condemnation can be done from the outside, but to judge someone you have to enter inside that person's head", Salman read aloud buoyantly.

"Whose head are you trying to get in to?", the voice had changed as Salman looked up, dark-skinned, jeans, belt and kameez donning Albina were now fair, and jeans and T-shirt donning Jasmine.

"Jasmine", Salman whispered.

"Yeah", she said, smiling, looking at him adorably, "Accio Salman!", she waved her hands like holding a wand.

"What is that?", Salman asked, as he climbed down the chair, keeping the book back in its place.

"It's a spell from Harry Potter, this spell is supposed to bring you closer to me", Jasmine said shyly as she walked towards Salman.

"I have not read Harry Potter", Salman said, as he avoided eye contact, acting to clean his desk.

"What about Fifty Shades of Grey?", Jasmine said, biting her lips, "We can read it together, or better, watch it and learn", she giggled.

Salman looked up for a moment, as Jasmine placed her palm over his palm, "I am excited to meet your father tonight", Salman said to break the awkwardness.

"So am I", Jasmine said, "He already loves that you have done so much good for yourself."

"Really?", Salman laughed, removing his hand, "What have I done?"

"Enough to impress me and my father", she smiled, "Also, wear a blue shirt, you look good in blue. Bye!", she blew him a kiss and left for her college.

Salman sat down on his chair, the rush was about to start, the tea was boiling, the fans were speeding up, the temperatures were soaring, and Albina sat across the room, staring at Salman, sad and dreamy.

It was 6:30 pm on the clock. Salman had to close shop early that day, he had to go meet Jasmine's father. Jasmine's father, Yusuf, and Ismael Chacha were good friends, and as is the tradition, it was quite obvious that Jasmine would marry either Rashid or Salman. Salman did come out as the obvious better choice.

Salman reached home to find Rashid already there.

"What are you doing here", Salman scolded, "It is 7 in the evening. It is rush hour, Rashid."

"Oh, calm down, brother, Rashid replied, "I have done enough trips today already to last us a week."

"Last what a week", Salman enquired.

"Beer, of course", Rashid said, getting up from the sofa, "I already got some in the fridge", as he walked towards the fridge, "You want one?"

Salman did not reply.

He went inside, took a shower, and wore the blue shirt. He did not know if he wanted to marry Jasmine, but he did keep everything intact for this evening, he had his shirt ironed and shoes polished, he had a watch borrowed, combed his hair, applied some perfume, maybe he did want to marry her, otherwise why would he go through such efforts to impress her dad who was already apparently impressed by him. Yes, he thought, let's get married, he said to himself as he perfected his collar looking at the mirror. Albina stared at him through the mirror from behind him.

"Woohoo! There goes the bride", Rashid laughed an encouragement as Salman left.

"Shut up!", Salman said, as he closed the door behind burping Rashid.

Salman reached Jasmine's home and rang the bell. Jasmine opened the door with a smile. Salman smiled back, and for only a moment though, his heart leapt with joy, the joy of being wanted and loved by someone.

"You look good", Jasmine remarked, still smiling.

"Thank you", Salman smiled back, "It's your choice."

"My choices are generally good", Jasmine giggled, "You should come with me to the movies."

Salman's smile lost its life again. Why couldn't Jasmine read good books and talk about quotes and how a person can grow, why can she not discuss world affairs and indulge in arguments about the rights and wrongs of anything? Why can she not disagree with me and prove to me that I am wrong? Why does she always have to be so loving and physical? Why can she not be mentally matured too? Why can she not be like Albina?

"Let him come inside, Jasmine", Mr Yusuf Khan roared a laugh from inside the house, breaking Salman's trance.

Salman came in, hugged Yusuf Khan, sat down, had his water and indulged in small talks about how life had been since Ismael Chacha's death, how he planned to move forward with his book business, how long had he planned to stay with Rashid and what have you. The light discussions continued to dinner, where the table was full of Afghan delicacies.

"Got all of these especially for you", Mr Khan said proudly, "You must miss Afghani khana."

Salman knew most of the food that was on the table, but what he missed was not there. He loved the pulav, not the biriyani, just the pulav with yoghurt and mint chutney, he and his mother used to eat that for days on end, followed by lemons. There used to be lots of vegetables in the pulav, he remembered – carrots, lettuce, tomato, spinach – but today, it was just meat with biriyani and tandoori bread.

"You need to sit down and eat to satisfy your taste buds", Mr Khan's joyful voice broke his reverie, "Only seeing is not enough."

Salman sat down, Jasmine served him the meat-filled dumplings called mantu, along with a yoghurt sauce, that also had lemon and garlic.

"This is authentic Afghani food", Mr Khan said, as he munched on his mantu, "What they sell outside is rubbish."

Salman also started eating. He had grown used to eating rice, and vegetables, and some fries, and some meat. Suddenly, Afghan food seemed alien to him.

After the mantu, the biriyani was served, alongside lamb chops and qorma. Salman had only taken a spoonful of biriyani when Mr Khan asked the question: "When do you intend to marry Jasmine?"

Salman did not know what to say. The biriyani remained on his spoon, as his brain switched off. He could not decide what to say – yes, he liked her, she was doing her M.A. in linguistics from Calcutta University, but again, oddly enough, she did not like to speak much about her subject, she was beautiful, gorgeous, elegant, but Salman was looking beyond the veil of an hourglass figure and smooth skin, he wanted depth, he wanted someone to conflict with him and come out with new ideas.

"It's okay", Mr Khan said, "I can understand."

"No", Salman tried to say something but had no clue what he wanted to say. He looked at Jasmine, her head was down, looking at her plate.

"You marry her", Mr Khan said, "And I will give you the full authority to control my business."

"Your business?", Salman asked, surprised, his spoon now back in the biriyani.

"Yes", Mr Khan said, as he chewed on his biriyani and qorma, "My mattress business."

"But I already have my book shop", Salman replied softly.

"Yes, of course", Mr Khan was now moving for the koftas, "But we both know very well who makes more money."

Salman kept quiet. Jasmine's head was still down, Salman also put his head down and ate.

"I can understand", Mr Yusuf Khan's voice came from behind a mouthful of food, "You want to keep Ismael's legacy alive. You loved him; you miss him. It is natural. But one needs to think of the future too, right?

"I am the father. I need to make sure my Jasmine is marrying into a comfortable household", he laughed.

"I have big plans for my book shop", Salman said, even he was surprised with his sudden change of tone.

"I am sure you do", Yusuf Khan said, as he kept eating, "You are a very bright kid, Salman, I have always liked you. I even had told Ismael that you were going to go very far in life."

"Yes", Salman said, his spoon still sitting idle in the biriyani, "With my book shop."

"Tell me, son", Yusuf Khan said, "Who even reads books these days? They all watch TV. Ask Jasmine what was the last book that you had read."

Jasmine nodded in agreement with her father.

"That is why I am not ready to marry her", Salman spilt out.

Yusuf Khan stared at him, Jasmine glared. Salman sat still. He knew he should not have said that.

"These foreign winds have changed you", Yusuf Khan said, as he reached out for water, "You also want to set up your career first, then get married."

"It's not that…"

"No. no", Yusuf Khan's burp interrupted him, "I am not saying it's bad. All I am saying is that if you agree to manage my mattress business, then you need not worry about career and money too. Get married to Jasmine, live a wonderful life, make kids with her, lots of them."

Yusuf Khan got up as if to end the conversation, "Do try the dugh, Jasmine has a hand for it", he smiled.

Salman did not feel like eating anymore, his lamb, biriyani and qorma all lay on the plate. He looked down on them. Surely, the meeting did not go as planned, but did he at all plan for it? He did not prepare any answer to the question of marriage, what kind of a fool does that? He came to impress a father without being sure if he even wanted a life with the daughter?

"Do you really not want to marry me?", Jasmine's voice was shaky, her eyes watery, her spoon was also in the food, her plate also full.

"Jasmine", Salman tried to conjure up an answer.

"Is it because I cannot quote authors like you", Jasmine whispered a cry, "Am I not attractive enough for you?"

"Yes, you are", Salman said, not knowing what else to say.

"So many boys flirt with me every day", Jasmine said, tears now building up in her eyes, "I keep everyone at bay, for you Salman", a tear dropped, "I love you", a second tear now racing down her cheeks, "I always have."

"Please, Jasmine", Salman said, getting up to go and sit beside her, "You are the nicest woman I have come across, but I want to set up my business first", Salman said, placing a hand over her hand.

"Don't lie, Salman", Jasmine said, as she pushed his hand away and got up, "There's no dugh for you."

Salman walked his way back home, cursing himself for always being so unsure about everything. He still wanted Albina and his mother by his side after so long. Why could he not just adapt to the newness, which in fact, is not even new anymore? It has been 10 years, but still, he is stuck in the past.

He entered the square that had a pool in the middle of it, his shop was just across the street. In the morning this place would be buzzing with people, but now at night there was no one, the ghosts of the past strolled around. Salman could almost hear them speak, and laugh, as they pointed at him for being such a stupid person.

"Don't mind them", Albina's voice floated in the air, "They know nothing about you, or what you are going through."

"Do you", asked Salman.

"I always have", smiled Albina.

Salman smiled too, as he went and sat at the stairs of the pool.

"You know, Albina", Salman said, as he rolled up his trousers to put his feet in the water, "I often wonder about what is true and what is not."

"It depends on what you believe is true, right?", Albina replied.

"What do you mean?"

"If you believe God to exist, He does, otherwise not."

"That is a bold statement", Salman laughed softly, "You are questioning Allah?"

"No", Albina said, looking away, "But what good has He done to us, anyway?"

"Whatever He has done, is for a better cause. We are too shallow to know that", Salman contradicted.

"How do you know that?", Albina looked back into his eyes, "You just broke off your marriage, turned down a life-changing opportunity, and are about to go back to a place where a drunk is lying, and that book shop that seldom gets customers is your only way out."

"That book shop is everything", Salman protested vehemently, "We spend so much time there. How can one live if not connected with the world? How can one understand oneself if one does not read about all the worldly conundrums?"

"Really?", Albina laughed in disapproval, "Do you understand yourself?"

Salman had no reply.

"You are always confused, Salman", Albina said, spreading her arms now that she knew victory was near, "You're not even sure if I am real right now."

Salman looked down. Albina was right. Salman stared at his wrinkling face in the water of the pool. That was the face of a loser, of a person who always dreamt but never slept, a person who did not know what is right for him and what is not. Confusions and judgements screamed in his ears as Salman's tears squeezed their way out. He was feeling sorry for himself; he had let himself down. He wanted to apologise to himself for the person he had been. He could feel himself slipping, as he hugged himself in sorrow and distaste, he tightly held on his arms as he gradually felt the water level rising, he felt a pull and made no efforts to oppose it.

"It's okay", he heard Albina's voice from under the water, "You are just coming closer to me."

Salman did not open his eyes, as the water touched his chin. He shivered in fear but grief kept him tight. He did not let any question come up in his mind, he was determined to at least do one thing without hesitation, and as the water went over his nose and eyes, his determination became stronger and stronger, and after a while, he could not feel the water anymore, he felt loose, he saw Albina again, and his mother, and his home, all in a veil of sepia, there were some people around too, all the silhouettes looked happy and peaceful.

"You're here", his mother's voice floated in towards him, "Just a little bit more, son."

Salman smiled, "Are you real?", he asked.

"Of course, not", his mother and Albina smiled back together, "But it does not mean that it is not happening."

"What?", asked Salman, "Please, I do not want to be unsure of my reality again."

"You had left your reality the day you left Sar-e Pol, Sallu", his mother said, floating closer and closer to him, "That was your reality. This place that you stay at is just a mere dream, a setting to pull you away from us."

"I do not want to go away from you anymore", Salman said, as he pulled himself towards her.

"What's real and what's true aren't necessarily the same", Albina smiled, "Remember we read it together."

"Yes", Salman stopped to smile and ponder, "Rushdie, my namesake!"

"We will read so much more, Sallu", Albina said, "Just push a little bit more."

"Do you not remember", Salman had stopped again, "Rushdie said something else too."

"What?"

"I must owe death a life", Salman said, "And I have not."

Albina did not reply. She stood where she was, his mother also statued to her spot.

"I must owe death a life", Salman shrieked in happiness, as he coughed and gasped, he threw his hands around frantically, trying to hold on to something. He could still see his mother and Albina, his home and the surroundings, but he kept resisting, "I must owe death a life", he screamed again, now gulping down a huge chunk of water, choking. The sepia faded, as darkness prevailed, he was alone, there was only nothingness around him, no air to breath, no one to hold. He almost had lost consciousness when he saw a light, a faint yellow light, "That is Allah's light", he remembered his mother's words, "Whenever you see this light know that He is with you."

"What does it mean, Ammi?"

"It means that you are safe, my son."

"And what if I do not see the light?"

"Then you close your eyes, and perceive His light."

Salman tried closing his eyes, but could not, as he felt ripples around him, a shadow masking the light, a pull, a fiercer pull, as he could feel the water becoming less dense. Then a thud, some air, lots of it, as he tried to take all of it in at once, he vomited out everything that was inside of him. Something was pushing down on his chest as he forced out more and more of his insides. It took some time but he started seeing again properly, his breath was heavy, he felt cold.

"What on earth, man?", someone screamed at him.

Salman laid there on the ground, as the stranger pulled him up.

"You want to come with me to my place", the stranger asked.

"No", Salman said, getting up, his legs shaking, head heavy, "I got a book shop to open tomorrow."