My name is Malik. It is the January of 2001. I have not been exempt from the burden of narration. My wife and my daughter’s well-being depends on it. I have been with money, I have been poor, I have been lost, I have been wounded, and yet I feel no pain.
On June 1989, through the bustling crowd of Dornala town at 2 pm, I make my way past a troop of buffaloes slowing down the highway traffic. I see my regular customers, and some that are new, some that were my targets. I have had my fair share of struggles before, but not like this, this was a slump. At the height of my capacity, I yell with all my strength, “Saabun hai, soap hai, sabbu teeskondi.” I had to get my sales, five more for any chance of buying the flowers from Rajesh. It may be time to settle for less, perhaps he’d give me credit for trying or perhaps he’d beat me to a pulp.
I made my way towards the black car, a car that looked long, big, and posh enough to attract the town’s piddly kids chasing it. Unable to defy the local town folk gawking at it in awe, the car screeched to a halt at the intersection.
By some miracle, I had gotten through. I peered through the glass window — the kids had encircled the car, as a constant gentle hammering of hands on the glass window followed. Was it a local politician? I pondered. Or maybe a movie star that had employed to enact the banality of village item songs. Whoever it was, they were my best chance of getting the fifty rupees I needed. It was time for my trick.
The passenger in the back seat rolled her window down enough for me to lock eyes, but not so I could construct her face. Locking eyes, I immediately answered her question.
“20 rupees Madam,” I shouted.
“Is it the full version of the Gita?” she answered without a hint of a need for a bargain. I should’ve quoted
higher.
“No Madam, only one book.” She looked disappointed. I had planned for that. She noticed the pitiful face I had worn but signaled at the driver, hands reaching for the roll-up handle.
“50 rupees with soap, Madam,” I said. It was the only way to redeem myself. She looked at me with confusion. It always worked.
“Soap?” she asked.
“Yes, Madam. Best handmade soap by salesman Malik. Only 10 rupees each. The best of the best, Madam.”
A Muslim man with the Bhagavad Gita and.. soap? It was a trick my father had taught me. Selling soap was challenging, and I had to draw from every trick in the book. What better way to do it than to use religious literature that was hard to ignore, right? I had to say something unconventional to secure a sale.
Alas! She rolled up the window before I could say anything else. The herd of buffaloes had moved to the side, paving the way for the car to speed up. I had missed it. I wasted my time on this car. The rich were arrogant and looked down on us. How am I going to repay Rakesh? Thoughts polluted my mind faster than the car was gaining traction. I had an hour to sell these soaps before Rajesh would either be kind or I could be homeless. Then, I heard a screech.
It was a stray buffalo that decided the motorway was the right way. I ran towards the car whose driver had stepped out to pass an earful to the shepherd guiding the animals. I knocked on the Madam’s window again, but she was far from convinced.
“Just smell madam! Jasmine, no chemical,” I said, hoping my muffled voice would get through to her. It did. She rolled her window.
“Jasmine amma?” she replied with the very confused face she had portrayed before.
“Yes Madam, handmade and best. 50 rupees.”
It felt like my fate was determined by an animal on the street. Serendipity, at its best. Moments after the car sped away, I noticed she had passed me a 500 rupee note. The joy I felt was immeasurable. Fleeting dreams of comfort crossed my mind. I pocketed it and made my way back. I never imagined I would see her again, let alone work for her and steal from her. Until a few months later, a man in a tucked shirt approached me and offered me a deal that would change my life.
“Madam, gaadi tayaar hai,” I said with a mark of respect that concealed my spite. ”One minute,” she replied.
I looked around the room for any glimpse of the box she treasured but did very little to keep away from. I noticed the safe hadn’t moved. 2486, that was the code. It was the code to her life, it was the code that drew diamonds. My soaps had made her rich, and I, a measly chauffeur to her. Jealousy knew no bounds in me, I carried the weight of my talent with me, all the while serving for a salary I had not received in months. Posters and flyers of Panchsheela soaps lay on her dressing.
I had a premonition. But I followed through regardless. Thoughts of failure had cursed me. Loud cries of “Roko unhe! Police” cut through the chatter of the crowd. It was like an action movie, befitting to say the least. Little did I know I would be living it. How did I allow myself to get into this position?
Last year, Rajesh conned me. He had found me and my family after I had moved to Mumbai. I sneaked him into the Madam’s house when she was away. Over a few drinks, we reminisced and laughed. But he had a plan, he always did. A cold camaraderie, an understanding for the lack of one, we were so consumed by our grief. He used his power, words of power that had turned my envy to malice, envy to craze. Us men, men who had seen it all and wanted more. Us men that had been betrayed. Us, until I was left alone to only be a pawn.
A few days later, running at speed I had not known I was capable of, I noticed that Rajesh had cut through a corner. I cursed myself, ran after him, pushing the crowd back, sideways, and some down to the concrete. I was being chased, and I was chasing him. We had a plan. He had a different one. I kept running. I cut the corner and then it hit me like a thousand bricks.
I lay flat on the sidewalk. I felt my right cheek contort to the touch of a tube-like object pressed hard against the skin. My mind failed to comprehend the moment for a second. But that was it. It all fell into place soon. Point blank range with disaster. Heart pounding, for an impeccable sense of fear had taken over. An unknown feeling. I could hear the high-pitched sound of a buffalo’s bleat. Footsteps near me. “Buffaloes,” I thought. “Full circle, indeed.”
Ten years ago, I had gotten away from getting beaten up by Rajesh. Luck did no favors for me this time. I squealed and cried till the Havaldar broke a sweat from swinging his Lathi. I could feel cuts scarring my back, and blood dripping on the floor from a spot in my body I was unaware of. I passed out and a few hours later; I woke in the dark, tall walls of concrete around me.
“I had neither the education nor the means to make it big in the business industry,” I was told. They gave me 50 thousand rupees and a job as a chauffeur for a celebrity — it was good enough in everyone’s eyes. And for
a moment, the image of myself standing in an office ordering my employees conjured against the ostentatious decor of the house. She had stolen my formula and technique to mass-produce her way into wealth.
Cruel injustice has plagued me, and it shows no signs of end. Panchsheela soaps was my idea, and I owned nothing of it.
I owe Rajesh nothing; I owe Madam nothing. I accept my fate, and I only hope this scourge does not pass on to my daughter. There is no sympathy for the underdog. Tactical use of words had altered the axiom. There remains no dearth of misery in this world. I do not wish to sway opinions in my favor, nor do I expect respite or compensation. The bars of prison cannot confine me. The diamonds are with Rajesh and my blood has almost run out. I shed some with my eyes. Inspector sahib, justice is in your hands.
Sincerely,
Malik, the best salesman of Dornala.
