The Earring Guy — EXCERPT FROM NOVEL 𝒃𝒚 Dr. Waheed Ahmad

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“Why?”

The Mundri Wala (The Earring Guy) rose from his chair while throwing this question on him and removed the thick, stubborn curtain from the window with a jerk. There came a flood of dazzling light in room. As the flood of sunlight poured into the room he realized that the dam of curtain had hindered the river of light. Lying on the bed, he threw a glance out of the window with shrinking eyes where the green sunshine of spring rested on the front mountain.

The spacious room was covered with a light brown carpet. There was a crimson embroidered Iranian rug in the middle of the room with a bulging peacock figure. The bed, where he was lying, was wrapped in red blanket. It had conical legs — depleted and elevated like church towers — with pinnacles painted in gold. The high ceiling of the room was neatly painted in white and walls in off-white. An imported lamp stood on a metallic silver arc with grey, round pedestal on right of the bed. Far on left two dark brownish sofas were placed making a right-angle and its thick coverings were stretched softly by the foam inside. The sofas appeared as alert as they might start walking at any moment. The three-legged wooden stand in front of them formed a table with a round glass placed on it. A human-skull shaped ashtray on the table, telling man his worth.

A little away from the sofas, four chairs were tucked into a small grey dining table. The waist of every chair was tied, looking slim like waist of a virgin and their lower backs and legs were stretched like those of a married woman. Light brown plates were placed on the shining surface of the dining table for serving three persons. There was a black book shelf at the back of dining table with large and small books placed at an acute angle in its three shelves. On the front wall a large abstract painting peeped through the glass of a metal frame. Dark brown velvet curtains hung on doors and on the sides of the window.

He threw an elaborate, gloomy glance on the room, lying still in bed. His eyes were blank — utterly blank. He was looking at the room as blankly as a mirror looks at the sky. His wandering in the room slipped over the lamp on the right, and then stopped on the repulsive face of the guy sitting on a chair with a small gold earring shining in his left earlobe, and his complexion was as pale as the dead. Perhaps, he wears the earring to contrast his complexion. Jamal reflected, wrapping the blanket around his neck. He wore a thick silver bracelet engraved with numbers, alphabets and discursive lines around his wrist. There was a visibly striking squint in his eyes: the left one was slightly pressed and the right one slightly popped up. His cursive hair formed a tip on his forehead. A wound mark on his left cheek that stretched from the corner of his lips to the earring, and a deep dimple in his elongated chin. Thin, long neck joined the repelling face with his slender body. On having a closer look, a moustache resembling a tin fine line drawn with a pencil became visible. Thin, black lips parted, pointed teeth appeared and a voice rose:

“Why?”

The Mundri Wala stared at him after repeating his question. He turned his side on his pillow toward the Mundri Wala, and replied:

“Coz I can’t live alive anymore — my heart is desperate.”

“Why?”

“Coz I’m fed up of living.”

“Why?”

“Coz living suffocates me.”

“Why?”

“Coz life’s lies heavy upon my breast.”

“Why?”

“Why do you say why this much? Yes! Why do you? I’ve told you… life’s grown too heavy upon me to bear. I’m tired of carrying it any more. My veins swell when I get out of my home, carrying the heavy stone of life in the morning. I find all my body scarred when I return home, carrying it back in the evening. I hit my face on the threshold of my house, carrying this stone at my back. My flesh tears when I try to push it away. The muscles of my legs tear apart and catch at my feet, and stone rattles and clatters on my bare bones. When I tread dismantling the stone, I feel like a walking skeleton with rags of flesh on bare bones, swaying here and there in discord. I apply pieces of my meat like a balm back on my bones and then go to sleep in tight fitted dress so that the bones might catch up at flesh by the dawn and I might be able to run my errands again.”

“A poet?” the Mundri Wala mockingly inquired and the scar engraved in his cheek tried to catch at his earring with an unexpected bounce.

“No.”

“But you talk poetry.” The Mundri Wala’s bracelet hid down in his open sleeve as he lit a cigarette.

“What comes right from heart seems poetic.” He removed red blanket from his chest.

“Have you ever been admitted to a hospital? I mean, been treated by some psychologist.” The Mundri Wala exhaled a whiff of smoke, but then seeing his hard cough extinguished it in the glass ashtray lying on a little mat.

“No, I’m still mentally stable.” He replied, again wrapping the blanket around his chest.

“Do mentally stable people commit suicide?” The Mundri Wala asked, staring at the ceiling. His squint became prominent.

“Yes.”

“But books don’t say so.” The Mundri Wala’s eyes landed on the bookshelf across the dining table.

“The writers of many great books committed suicide as well.” He promptly replied.

“Not necessary that the writers of great books were mentally stable too. Well, you appear to be an educated man.” The Mundri Wala drew his eyes back.

“Yes.”

“Education?”

“A deceit”

“I mean your education?” The Mundri Wala reiterated his question, making it clear.

“I’m an Aesthete”

“Means?”

“I am a PhD in English Literature and also in Fine Arts.”

“Well, should I call you Dr. Sahib or Big Dr. Sahib?” There was an expression of admiration in the Mundri Wala’s squint.

“You may call me Jamal — that’s my name.”

“So, Jamal, are you afraid of life or of people?”

“People have made my life a hell.” Jamal replied.

“How many?”

“So many”

“150…200?”

“No. Not this many.” Jamal, squeezing his eyes, looked at the clock on wall that showed 11:07.

“50…60?” the Mundri Wala cut his estimate short.

“38 — they are 38.” Jamal replied.

“Had you drowned in the river, would those 38 have had cared? They’d start bothering some other Jamal. And if that Jamal died too, what next?”

A girl entered the room with a tea tray in her hands from the door at the back of dining table. She was covered in a red shawl. Her trimmed hair appeared arranged and dispersed as well.

“This is my daughter, Sheena.”

Sheena put the tray on the bed and touched Jamal’s forehead with her palm.

“He looks better now, Baba” She said. Then she turned back and stepped towards the door making an arc around the bed.

Jamal was surprised at her extemporaneous therapy. Jamal slowly pulled half of his body out of the blanket and sat a little up as the Mundri Wala made tea. He recalled the events of the day past in detail, sipping on the tea.

—Why did I get into the river? There are so many other effective and tested ways to commit suicide. Yes! This is true that I was numbed by desperation. I wandered in the markets of the city for long, and then a bus stopped near me and the conductor said to me in his professional way, “Come in Bau Ji! There’s an empty seat. Come here. Not the seat above the tire, No 7, Single seat—” And I boarded it without any thought. Without asking where it was heading to. It ran for many hours in plains and then started creeping on the zigzag, uneven road in hills. Finally it stopped at a small station. Everyone got down.

‘“Come down, Sa’ab! It needs cleaning.” I got down at the voice of a man with dirty cap standing in the door. I don’t remember paying the fare. The bus might’ve stopped on the way. I didn’t eat anything. I walked after getting down from the bus. Why didn’t any vehicle hit me? I noticed a river —.

“What’s this bastard doing? Going into the river all dressed up like this… He’s treading like a toy… get him out of there!” The Mundri Wala said to his men.

Two of them rolled up their trousers, removed their shirts and dashed like hunting hounds of the rabbit. They ran along the bank of the slow flowing river for a while and overtook the drowning man, jumped into it and took hold of him. Both of the half-naked men were pumping him when the Mundri Wala came walking near them. The Mundri Wala raised the face of the unconscious man with the tip of his shoe. A 40-42 year man, about 6 feet, was lying motionless at the bank of the river. Slightly dark complexion, straight hair, stubbles, grey hair here and there on head and chin, semi-oval face, half open doors of lids on big eyes with open locks of brows, the color of eyelids fairer than face, a curl of wet hair on forehead, pale ears… as washed with turmeric water… strong neck, broad shoulders, neither thin nor fat, original color of pants hid in moisture, lined shirt… mostly pulled out of pants… dark complexion belly peeping through the crack between pants and shirt, tight tied belt around pants that looked loose while lying, black shoes, the laces of left shoe were stuck to its leather after untying, an uneven knot on the right shoe, spotty socks of thick fiber, strong hands showing from sleeves, web of dark lines on pale palms. The palm opened as he pressed the clenched fingers of the left palm that showed a prominent, long Life Line in the crisscross. The Mundri Wala bent down. He opened the half-closed lid of the right eye with his thumb, lit his lighter and brought it near to his eye. The shutter of black pupil announced life of the man, lying there by contracting reflexively.

“Bring him up!” the Mundri Wala commanded, closing the lid of his lighter with a thud.

A band of 8 men formed a stretcher by making two rows and started upwards with the wobbly body of drenched man, hanging from their shoulders. Some music was playing at a distance. The stretcher passed by a group of people, climbing up the mountain. A Negro was playing on flute. An Englishman was accompanying the beat of Spanish guitar. The rest of them were clapping to add the Qawwali effect to the composition. Arms of the drenched man were hanging down. There was a band of clapping hands around the instrument. It felt like the stretcher of shoulders ascended on the beat and rhythm of the Qawwali and the man lying on it looked entranced. The flutist looked at the stretcher with intoxicated eyes and kept playing his tune. The guitarist continued the motion of his hands and head; claps carried on. The Mundri Wala raised his right hand, made a circle by putting his finger tip on thumb and silently extended his admiration to the musicians.

“Meal is served!” Sheena’s voice knocked at the door.

Jamal looked at his shaved face in the bathroom mirror after washing. He opened the door and stepped towards the table through a semi-circle around his bed. His eyes suddenly caught at the clock on the wall that still showed 11:07. This is broken, or has dried batteries. He reflected. The daughter and father were waiting for him. He was breathing fast. His heart pricked as he stepped ahead. They unfolded their napkins and placed them in their laps. The Mundri Wala advised him in the manner of an expert physician only to have boiled rice in soup. Jamal and Sheena sat facing each other whereas the Mundri Wala headed the meal.

Jamal again looked at the clock on the wall and said, “It isn’t working, perhaps.”

“What’s the time?” Jamal again inquired on having no reply.

The daughter and father kept eating calmly without responding to him.

“I don’t even know what day it’s today.” Jamal uttered, picking up a spoonful of hot dipped rice.

“My time and my space! Just have your meal. It’s daytime in the spring.” The Mundri Wala promptly responded.

Jamal’s eyes fell on Sheena’s face, climbing stairs of the red shawl. She looked to be around 20 — very lively, almond eyes on oval face; her bright, glowing eyes appeared orange in the grey air of room. She had an expression of neglect in her eyes. There was a calm in her every move and a move in her every calm. She was like Earth that moves without letting anyone know. She had no such expressions on her face like an unmarried girl shows when having her first meal with a stranger in her father’s presence. Her face appeared to be of creamy orange hue that perhaps was the reflection of her red shawl. The color of her hands was milky because they were a little away from the shawl. Her body was slender like her father’s. Her father is an ugly man; her mother must be very beautiful. An average looking lady cannot give birth to such a pretty girl with the cooperation of a horrible guy like this one. Jamal’s reflecting eyes moved to the girl’s father. The Mundri Wala was having a close watch at Jamal as he stared at his daughter.

“Yeah, she’s mine.”

Jamal felt a jolt as the Mundri Wala said these words. Recovering his senses, he impulsively responded, “I… I didn’t mean this!”

“But I mean that what I say.” The Mundri Wala replied removing his eyes from Jamal’s face, who was still astounded. He lowered his eyes and resumed eating, quietly.

“Wanted to commit suicide by drowning into river? What stuff is it? Drowned in cold water and died, dead body found miles away from the suicide spot — frozen and cold, cramped and abhorring, decayed even before the postmortem and is buried as unidentified. A cocktail doctor like you deserves a more benefitting death; memorable and didactic; death with an attitude, a sinister and fluttering death, a vibrating and vibrant death, a terrifying death, a shocking death, a propounding death, that should make the life shy away.”

The Mundri Wala closed the cigarette case with a thud and then leveled the tobacco of the pulled out cigarette by hammering its filter on it.

Sheena was making coffee. Her complexion was milky like her coffee-making hands. Red shawl hung around her neck.

….

(Translated from URDU by Munir Fayyaz)

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