by Rehan Sheikh

Ali was the servant’s son. When my parents used to sail away for their work, he would be at my service. An honest, reverent, and dutiful young boy, Ali came from the Muslim slum nearby.  He would play with me, feed me, clean the house, spend time with me and give me company. I vaguely remember his figure. Ali had a slim and gaunt physique, a forlorn face with feeble eyes and scruffy, dusty hair. Till the last time we met, I have always seen him in a loose fit, torn T-shirt hanging from his fleshless shoulders and in a pair of unclean, red trousers. During the absence of my parents, he would obediently carry out his duties.

I first saw Ali when I was seven. Ali was just a year older than me, which allowed us to stay at each other’s company when my guardians would be out of the house for days. After Ali finished his chores, he would give me a loud, shrill call from the angaan and I would be with him in no time to play. I waited eagerly for this moment and he did too. Pleasant memories survive from these playtimes with Ali.

Once I asked him, “Why is your name only Ali? Don’t you have a surname?”

He told me, “We should never tell our full name in front of Babusahabs. Abba says it is not right”

“But you can tell me. I will not tell father”
“No, leave it”

At the fall of the dusk when the day waned close, Ali and I would listen to each other’s stories. He would tell me stories of his family, his father, and his mother. Between us existed a relationship like none other- it had no decorations, no fancy, no gain, no loss. It was a veritable, true-blue relationship only standing on the pillars of love. Our relationship was against reason, against any social stratum, against faith, or any desire that could be. There was no force, which could rip up our acute and staunch relationship or, perhaps, as we had thought.

But I always wondered why Ali used to distance himself from me in the presence of my guardians. When they arrived at the door, Ali would hurry to the kitchen- he would not wait a moment. I would summon him to stay a little longer, but he would let off an excuse and leave. While Ali worked and my parents would be away, I would often sit alone and think, think and think- however in vain. I was too young to be conscious of life’s complexities- grim and grotesque social reality.

Ali also attended a public school. He would go to school after long, long breaks. When I used to invoke him with the question that why he did not pay heed to school, he would tell me – “I will study, then who will look after you?”. But during exams, Ali would study with me. Although I was smaller than him, I did have the knowledge and a fine understanding of his studies, apparently. I would help him during exams, and often help him with his homework. Ali believed me blindly and credulously. He never questioned me, and hence, I had to be super-conscious during teaching him.

~

In this gigantic world, we are all slaves to society. As we mature, grow into an adult, and begin acquiring knowledge, much immorality slips into our minds. We forget those old loves, those old friendships- we are drawn toward the materialistic, worldly world. We become heedless and reckless of the bygone companionships, solidarity, and brotherhood.

As I grew older, the intimate, deep-knitted attachment with Ali began degrading and wretched. We no longer played in the evenings. I stopped helping him with his school work. As we used to, we did not sleep together under the clear, moonlit sky. We talked seldom; he would carry on with his duties. Often when he approached me to talk, I would instead order him a cup of tea. Amidst all these changes, which Ali had certainly felt, I was not so much affected. Time had suddenly slipped away. I was now busy pursuing my studies; there was no time left for Ali.

Ali did not respond to this much. However, at times I found him weeping under the staircase in darkness. But, somehow, I did not feel the longing to keep my hands on his and come along once again. I developed a certain unfamiliarity with him when I grew even more.

A few years passed. Ali had, too, grown-up. I could realise that Ali could not accept this rupture in our closely-tied relationship. He had nothing except his work and me. But I had many worldly interests. To Ali, actually, his entire world existed around me, but to me, he was, probably a friend in need, a mere company. Years later, I realised how indispensable people like Ali are. I have known many people who have laughed and talked and gone away to never come back again. Yet I never again found one who cried for me- to whom I was the world, the only love.

About the Author:

A student, Rehan Sheikh is a writer based in Kolkata, West Bengal, India. His works have appeared in various leading magazines and newspapers.