Muhammad Qaim, 23100224
Little House on Street 9
Little House on Street 9:
Among the many houses I’ve resided in, this is the oldest one I can remember. Located in
Sargodha, in a small Army Cantt. It belonged to an army Major, Aftab Khan - the man Ammi had
just married. I used to call him Daddy. Most details of its appearance elude me, but the interior
is what I remember most clearly. A single sofa in front of a TV. A small bedroom of my own, with
a cupboard full of toys. The biggest room was the one my parents slept in. It had a small garden
outside, not well maintained. Looking back, many happy, weird and sad memories pop up. The
first time I ever had my birthday party, all the neighborhood kids got invited. I remember the
balloons, the cake, even the clown that performed. It was the first time I felt that I was the center
of the universe, that I was the one who was in the spotlight. I was woken up that day by Daddy
throwing a toy snake on my sleeping body and jolting me awake. After I was done panicking at
the snake and came to my senses, he told me, “Chotu, Saalgira hai teri, Bahir aja”.
Daddy had a funny way of waking me up, quite unlike the gentle way in which Ammi woke me
up. Sometimes he’d just pick my little body up and toss me several feet away, in the middle of
the night. He’d then leave and go back to yelling at my mother. I wonder why he wanted to
involve me when his quarrel was with my mother, not me. Back when they had first married;
he’d politely tell me to go to my room if they ever argued. Now, it seemed like he would go out of
his way to include me in all household affairs, even the ugly ones.
Daddy’s room was quite far from mine. At some point, I started being perceptive of his room and
of the distance between his room and mine, and whether his room gave him an easy view of
mine or not. It started giving me comfort that his room was quite far away in the opposite corner
of the house. I started to feel afraid whenever he’d come home, because it meant I had to say
“Assalam-o-Alaikum" to him, accompanied with a hug. Daddy’s car was an old Nissan Sunny.
Those cars have a very distinct and loud engine noise. I could hear his car approach from way
down the street and start bracing myself to greet him. Sometimes another car with a similar
sound would pass by and I’d get worried for nothing.
Haveli of Indulgence
The first one to make a friend in the family wasn’t me, rather it was my mother. Barely after we
had moved into her house, she told me we’re going outside and skipped up to the neighboring
house, gajar ka halwa in hand, walked up to its creaking floorboards, and hit the doorbell. No
sound, nada. She kept hitting it as I slipped my hand from between her’s and started getting a
better look around the garden. I passed through the row of 4 cars, all of different colors, entered
the garden and inhaled deeply, allowing the fragrant air of newly budding flowers to fill my lungs.
The centre of the garden was filled with a sea of crimson roses that immediately drew my
attention. It was a stunning sight, with the rosebushes carefully manicured and the blossoms
arranged in perfect harmony.
I continued walking and came across a little fountain encircled by a bed of white daisies. The
flowers waved in the breeze, almost as if they were dancing to a music that only they could
hear, while the sound of the water trickling into the pool produced a serene atmosphere. At the
end of a garden was an ill-maintained cage, with all the metal having been claimed by rust, the
cage was housing what could only be called a zoo. Pigeons, peacocks, sparrows, and parrots
were waddling about in their own little groups.
“Chotu, come inside!”, my mother’s voice roared and made its way across the garden to where I
was. I ran inside to an even more extravagant sight. A hallway adorned by chandeliers, the floor
a furnished mahogany timber, the walls practically covered in paintings depicting mughal
emperors of old. I barely entered the room before I was grabbed by two massive, fat hands and
my face was showered by wet, sloppy kisses of a woman I’d never seen.
Chotu, meet aunty Adeela, our neighbor.
Masha Allah, I’ve never seen such a cute kid, you’re such a lucky woman!
I can say the same for you, I’ve never seen a more beautiful interior.
Oh, what can I say, I’ve got a knack for decoration!
After I’d cleaned the last drop of saliva from my cheeks, I started to really take in the
atmosphere, the room was practically gold. Three flat-screen TVs, I’d never seen one before
except in my cousin Chintu’s house. Our’s was an antenna TV that you had to physically assault
to make work, the kind from the cartoons.
The house was practically hedonism given form, there were multiple servants that cooked for
us, served food to us, and the food was of different cultures, shapes, and sizes. Oriental food,
western food, arabic food, even african cuisine. All to decorate a long, long table that would be
fit to host a team of foreign dignitaries. We ate our fill, accompanied by the roaring laughter and
chitter chatter of aunty Adeela. Her husband is away for most of the year, but she’s been given
a house to stay while she waits for his monthly visits.
Do visit again! She shouted from the door while we walked back. We sure will, my mother yelled
back.
I could hear my mother giggle from under her laughter while she murmured some arabic
incantations that at the time, I could only tell were praises to God. I could already tell what was
up. My mother is a shallow person, you see. She married her husband because he’s a wealthy
man and he said he’d take care of me. And the reason she was so delighted to meet Aunty was
because she had already started to picture her exchanging pleasantries in the form of sending
dishes to Aunty and receiving even more lavish, even grander dishes in return. Gifts on Eid,
gifts during Ramadhan, I could already tell what was going on in her imagination.
Tipu
Ghar ke dost used to be my main escape from home life. However, sometimes my home
followed me outside too – I remember when I grabbed a brick and threatened my friend Tipu
with it over a petty argument. Tipu was a fellow 1st grader, we’d play together just about
everyday. He had an elder brother who used to visit our house to play video games with Daddy.
Our house was filled with raunak back then. I would have friends over regularly to watch
cartoons with me, Ammi would prepare snacks, such as samosay and pakoray. There would
always be someone on the video game console, either Tipu’s brother, Daddy, or I. I’ve noticed
that you can have profound conversations with people but forget them surprisingly quick, but
then there are small conversations that did not mean much at the time, but still linger with you
for decades. I used to be told often about how much of a care-free, jovial person I was back
then. Once, when me and Tipu were discussing our prospects about the future, Tipu’s brother
overheard something I had said. I did not take my future seriously back then, for I was someone
who just enjoyed life itself, and was happy wherever life took me. What I had told Tipu reflected
that mindset, and Tipu’s brother immediately told him,
Tipu, don’t listen to Ali, I know how that pagal is going to end up, do you want to end up the
same way?
Yes, bhai, butNo buts. Be responsible, came the retort from Tipu’s brother.
In the future, whenever I’d doubt myself or feel anxious about the future, that quote would
always surface in my memory again.
Street 9 was filled with meadows and most of the houses were inhabited by old, retired couples.
Us kids would measure the “friendliness” of a neighborhood by noting how likely it was for a
neighbor to return a cricket ball without making a fuss if the ball was to land into the confines of
their house. Another friend I had and looked up to was named Danish. He was older than me,
strong, responsible. We had a swimming pool nearby too, where Daddy would have someone
teach me to swim. Frustrated at my lack of progress, he tossed me to the deep end of the pool
one day. I regained consciousness minutes later to find that Danish had pulled me out of the
water.
Sapnon ki Dukaan
Down the street, just near the gate where the neighborhood starts, was the Sapnon ki Dukaan.
It was a dusty old gift shop. My brother loves collecting playing cards, but because he was too
young to go out alone, my mother used to make me go to the dukaan and buy the cards for him.
Apparently it used to be a glamorous store once, years ago, but then its owner moved away and
it was closed for decades, and only reopened recently, because the owner moved back. I still
remember the first time I visited that place. I left my house begrudgingly, upset at missing an
episode of my favorite show because I had to get my brother’s cards. When I approached the
dukaan, I noticed there were many soldiers surrounding it, in army cars and jeeps. Turns out the
dukaan was part of the house of a big army general, they had turned the garage of the house
into the dukaan. I walked in.
The floor was laden with an exotic Moroccan carpet. There were bells that chimed constantly
due to the air from the fan, which had its wings decorated with glitter and colors. The shelves of
the dukaan were laden with dolls of all shapes and sizes. There were figures of buddha,
krishna, and many other gods. There was a dusty music box that I didn’t touch because I saw a
family of spiders living on it. And a lizard toy that I thought was a lizard toy but turned out to be
an actual lizard that was living on the shelf. There were bouquets of roses and toys and old
books and cheap saris and intricately designed silverware. The store kept gifts fit for any
demographic. I found a tape on a wall that was used for measuring someone’s height, I didn’t
even reach it’s halfway point. Still a long way to go before I become tall like Tipu’s brother, I
thought. I picked the cards and got ready to leave, only I couldn't find the storekeeper. Then
came a voice from behind the counter.
Here, son.
I walked over, and peeked over the counter, hidden behind it, was an old woman in a
wheelchair. Her skin was leathery, her jaw was drooping, and her fingers were slender and
looked like they would fall off her hands any second now. Her hair were long and white, tied into
braids. Ashamedly, I was disgusted by her appearance at the time. But her voice was a sweet,
kind one, it offset how threatening her appearance was to a boy my age.
Did you like my shop?
I liked it a lot. I replied, wanting to get out as soon as possible. Getting back to my TV show was
all I had on my mind at the time.
Oh, that’s good to hear. Do come again. It's nice having customers from time to time.
As my brother’s addiction to the cards grew, so did the frequency of my trips to the shop. I got to
know the old lady better. Jannat, she called herself. Turns out she rarely ever got customers, so
my daily visits became a big part of her day.
She started inviting me to her backyard to have tea together. I had gotten over my uneasiness
with her appearance by then, and started enjoying her company.
As I used to sit in the backyard with Jannat, I couldn't help but take in my surroundings. The
space was small but cozy, surrounded by tall trees that provided a sense of privacy and shade
from the warm sun. The grass was neatly trimmed and lush, tickling my toes as I walked
around.
There were a few chairs scattered around the yard, each with a different patterned cushion.
Jannat and I sat in two old wicker chairs, sipping tea and enjoying the peaceful surroundings.
The sound of chirping birds and rustling leaves filled the air, creating a sense of tranquility that
was hard to find anywhere else in the neighborhood.
We were having our usual tea one day when she pulled out a wrapped gift. This is for you, son.
I was pleasantly surprised and thanks her profusely. What for, I asked. For spending time with a
lonely old lady, she replied, with a smile. I excitedly unwrapped the gift. It was a big, blue
notebook called “Sapnoon ki Kitab”.
What is this? I asked.
Write any wish in it, and it’ll come true.
Aunty, I’m not the little kid you met anymore, you know?
Aunty laughed.
You’re still only half as tall as the height measure tape, little one. But I believe that if you write
down something you really, really want, and have faith that it’ll come true, it will. One thing I’ve
learned in 90 years of my life, beta, is that you don’t underestimate the power of faith.
I see, so you’re saying I just have to believe in something and it’ll come true? That’s absurd.
She laughed lightly and said, make one wish with all your heart. If it comes true, then you’ll
believe me.
Fine. I said and I wrote down my wish on the notebook. No peeking, I said to her, and wrote it
down in secret.
Jinn house
Street 9 has many empty patches of land but Tipu and I aren’t allowed to go there ever since he
was bit on the ankle by a snake while we played hop-scotch there. Those faujis can’t be
bothered to trim the grass there so you and Tipu must never wander there even during the day,
my mom says. So we play cricket on the street. Place the plastic wickets on the gravel street
and get into position with the bat, and when a car approaches, grab it all again to make way for
it to pass. Then repeat it all over again and set the wickets up. It was a game of restrictions and
conflict. First fight with Tipu on who gets to bat first, and then yell curses at each other
whenever one of us would hit the ball for a chakka and the ball would land in the Jinn house. Ah
yes, the Jinn house, the home to a hundred lost balls that went deeper into the house than our
bravery would allow us to go. Everytime the ball would enter those dreaded walls, everyone
would feel just a tinge of strength leave their legs. Who’s gonna go get the ball now? Not me.
You go.
Everyone said the house was haunted, you see. The house, made of wood, eroded so badly by
rain and time that it looked like it had been through several wars. The windows were broken,
moss grew on every panel of the roof. You could see tens of balls scattered across the pipelines
on top of the house, forever claimed by it. It wasn’t the house’s appearance that scared us, you
see. It was what lived inside its walls. Apparently the house was once home to a fauji family that
died in a gas leak. Someone just left the gas open and they died in their sleep. The kids, the
parents, even the grandparents. Now their souls roam the house, unable to move on. Or so the
stories say. Some say its just a family of jinn that moved in because the house was devoid of
any human life. Whether it be jinns or tortured souls, the house is something few dare enter.
They say you can see someone walk inside the windows sometimes, and hear wailing in the
dead of the night from inside the walls. Why don’t the faujis just clean the house and refurbish it
so that a new family can move in, I ask Tipu. He looks at me funny. Are you crazy, why would
you mess with the supernatural, the faujis would get cursed! One time Tipu’s favorite ball went
inside the walls and he took a deep breath, ran in, and came out dazed and pale. Didn’t say a
word of me and went home. The next day he pretended that this had never happened. Even
though it’s been years, I’m still sure it's an ongoing prank by him.
Chaukidaar Sahab
Down the street from my house, if you turn right just before you reach Tipu’s house and follow
the road, you’ll come across a small hut. Chaukidaar Sahab lives there. We call him that
because he’s supposed to watch over the place for 18 hours a day. He wakes up there, sits on
his bench under the shade and keeps watch over the neighborhood. Sometimes he takes a few
patrols around the street. Makes sure we sleep safe at night. When the azaan of the mosque
didn’t reach our neighborhood anymore due to the mosque not having replaced its speakers in a
while, some residents asked him to start calling out the azaan while patrolling the street during
the fajr time. An old, agreeable man, he started diligently doing so every single day. My room is
extremely close to the street, and that’s the reason why I almost get my eardrums shattered
every morning at sunrise. He once showed me inside his hut. It’s walls were made of hardened
mud, a small kettle for tea tucked comfortably in the corner, a plain charpai with no bedsheet on
top, and a small FM radio which is the source of his entertainment in his few hours of free time a
day. He had a framed picture of his family hanging on the plain mud wall. Neat and orderly lines
of ants would march on the sides of the walls, going God knows where. His hut had no
electricity, so his only source of respite from the sweltering summers would be a small, batteryoperated fan, which barely holds a candle to the huge ceiling fans that everyone else has. The
army did not pay him enough so the neighbors would always chime in and bring him leftover
food from their homes. Tipu’s family, my family. Jannat aunty’s family. Not Aunty Adeela though.
We were always flabbergasted at his lack of belongings. Apparently a charpai, an FM radio, an
electric fan, and some chai was all he needed to live with a smile.
How can you be happy with all this? Do you not get bored? Tipu once asked him.
But this is all I need. What more could I possibly ask for? He replied, his kind eyes gleaming like
they always do.
Fakeeron ke bache
I’d wander outside on the street alone quite a lot those days. Wearing my little shoes that light
up in all sorts of colors as their soles hit the pavement, making funny little noises as I’d waddle
about. Tip, top, tip, top. There were some areas my mother would warn me not to wander into.
What about the shadowy place over there? I’d say when my mother first warned me. She gave
a little chuckle, understanding my reference to The Lion King. That's where the Fakeeron ke
bache gather, you must never go there, Chotu. Well, why not? It’s because they’re wild, unruly
and dangerous. They’ll pick on someone as small as you and they won’t leave empty handed if
you ever bump into them.
Not satisfied with a simple warning, I’d make my way down the street that led to their domain,
the main street, and then I’d peek as to what they were doing, and that would satisfy me for the
day. The kids were beggars who would ask any car or motorbike that stopped for spare change.
They were fierce, and I once saw a child throw a rock at another child because that child had
stolen 10 rupees from him.
The children reminded me of Chaukidaar sahab, because of the conditions in which they lived.
Each kid had nothing more than a blanket that they would put on the side of the road and sit
there, if there was no traffic or passerby to beg from. The road was dusty. Every time a car
passed by, it would blow dust all over their blankets. This was why their blanket were practically
brown from dust, but that didn’t seem to bother them. Sometimes street dogs would run and tug
at their blankets and then they would hush the dogs away. The kids did not seem to have a
home. Even at night, I saw them lying there. There was a shop right in the middle of the main
street where the children would go and buy little treats that would have never been enough to
satisfy Tipu or me. I never saw them eat much. Sometimes one of the kids would buy a tiny bag
of chips and everyone else would swarm him, like a group of piranhas to an unsuspecting
victim. They would pass their time by throwing stones at cats and chasing them away, or by
trying to hit each other with rubber bands. One of the kids was different from the rest, he would
gather sticks and try and build a house for himself with it. The others would pick on him and kick
his wooden house down and that would make me feel sorry for him. I wanted to be his friend.
He seemed more like me than them. Maybe if I could get the courage to go to their domain, I
could bring him back and he could become my brother. And then we would build houses from
sticks all day long, with no one there to kick them down.
Sapnoon ka Bagh
It was just another one of my usual days when my brother started talking about wanting to buy
new cards. His addiction had died down recently, so I hadn’t been to the Dukaan in a few
months. So when he mentioned the cards again, I got up before he could and offered to buy
them for him. I left the house with the Sapnoon ki kitab, hoping to show it to Jannat so we could
reminisce. As I took the corner towards the Dukaan I was met with an empty street. No army
men. No lines of cars strewing the area. Nothing but 1 chaukidaar in front of the house. I
approached him.
What happened? Where is everyone?
The old lady passed away. They were only living here because of her attachment to the
neighborhood, so with her gone, the family finally moved away, he answered.
He looked at me more closely.
Wait a minute, are you Chotu?
Despite my overwhelming sadness, his words caught me by surprise.
How do you know my name?
The old madam mentioned you. Come with me.
We entered the now unguarded gates of the home, down the large driveway that previously
housed over 5 cars, now held 0. Down the garden that was now no longer tended by 3 different
gardeners. Down the side-path that was now devoid of all the exotic potted plants that used to
be there. No barking of bed dogs, no chriping of the pet birds. Just silence.
The chaukidaar lifted up the covers of the dukaan and entered. The dukaan was as Jannat had
left it. Full of old, odd items that people rarely bought. Full of that same earthy smell. Just now,
there was no kind voice coming from behind the counters anymore.
The chaukidaar led me outside the back door. Into the place me and Jannat used to call the
Sapnoon ka Bagh so fondly.
The chaukidaar now turned to me. The old madam told us to let you come and stay in this
garden whenever you want. She said she liked having you here and that you enjoyed being
here. She still wants you to enjoy its breeze. And then he left.
As I sat in the garden alone, facing the hair where Jannat used to sit, I opened the Sapnoon ki
kitab to see the only line that had ever been written in it.
“I want to have a place I can call my own.”