Cancel, Retry, Abort, Repeat – 6

Tags

abortion, adult, fiction, life, Pakistan, people, short, short story, social, story, writing

Part 6 – continuing on the extension of the previous story – of Cancel, Retry, Abort. Written originally as part of my Fiction Writing Workshop course.

Special Cases and Weird Faces

If there’s one thing I’ve learnt in the past few weeks, it’s that men would do anything for good sex – even if it means manipulating a whore’s need for an abortion to keep her around.

Another thing I’ve learnt is that when I put my dick first, shit tends to hit the fan, but more on that later.

It’s been a tough couple of weeks, the past few. Jameela’s case really has started taking priority over the others – I blame it on my dick. This weekend will be the start of week 22 – the equivalent of no-man’s land for abortions. Of course, try explaining that to a whore with serious dick withdrawal, and you’ve got yourself a challenge.

She’s been coming by about twice a week, sometimes more. She makes sure to drop by after closing time so that Safiya doesn’t get a whiff of what’s going on. She whines about how she’s getting uglier (she is starting to visibly bloat though and her breasts are starting to droop a little; fuck!) and then I try showing her an ultrasound where I point at random gray areas and say “oh look, that’s a fingernail!” or “do you know it’s got hair now? And it’s already started forming teeth?” Her preggo-mones kick in and she starts bawling about how she’s a murderer and how she’ll be a horrible mother and I sit there leaning back in my chair smiling inwardly. Then she complains about being broke and out of commission – naturally – and I oblige dutifully by letting her service me because the way I see it, you gotta enjoy the goods when they’re fresh, no?

I’m in a safe little niche. Given how far into the pregnancy Jameela is, I’ve got even less of a reason to do the procedure on her, even if I were to admit that I could. But then the poor woman’s out of a job and she’s got practically two mouths to feed, and if she can’t afford it then I should help her out. So I let her give me these little tongue-twisting adventures and reward her with enough cash to last a few days. It’s a very professional deal – she provides a service to me, the client, and I pay for her food and water. I even throw in a bonus if she does something particularly kinky, because I care and I want her to be creative, you know.

We’re in the middle of another one of these ‘services’. She’s using ice-cubes and I hate it, but I can’t quite tell her that so I just try not to squirm a lot.

Then suddenly there’s a loud bang as the door swings open and hits the wall. I feel my dick squeak a little in fright and go limp inside Jameela’s mouth, who herself suddenly clutches her shirt over her chest to hide Frodo and Bilbo Saggins (what? I was bored so I named them).

“Wahwahwah, do dil mil rahe hain, magar mera commission mujhe nai mil raha,” Jameela immediately starts quivering, and I know who it is though I can only see the silhouette.

“Ruk kyun gaye? Aray babu kaam shuru kiya hai to mukammal karain na; Jackie, apne sahab ko aise hi latke chordogi? Tch tch tch.” Sheeda Thakkur, Bharwa Extraordinaire, has managed to find his way to the office, and is now playing audience to my little game with Jameela.

He’s short, he’s burly, and he’s got this heavy-set expression that makes him look like a mugger. He just looks like a fucking midget to me though. He casually makes his way to the sofas in the corner, sits on it, props one leg over the other and stares at us pointedly.As if we’re invading his living room, the arrogant choot. Jameela hurriedly puts on her clothes as I stay seated awkardly still, my pants hanging around my ankles. I feel oddly exposed, like I’m in a prison shower. I try reaching for them, but the pimp notices and smiles at me like the Cheshire Cat’s neurotic cousin.

“No need to do that, babu. We can just talk from where we are, no pressure.” He says.

“Alright then,” I know he’s not here for small talk, “what do you want…Thakkur jee?” I can’t figure out how to address the guy.

“Please, no formality, just call me Bharwa.” He shrugs, “As for what I want? Well, the thing that was just attached to your lund would be apt, I guess.” I’m both amazed and scared of how cool he’s coming across, even though he’s in my fucking territory, so to speak.

He goes on, “You see, Jamshed Babu, I’m a man of the pleasure business.” Oh crap, not another one of those fucking sermons – I don’t want to picture him naked. He breaks it down for me, how his business is dependent on the patli kurhis that Jameela alluded to and how some of the veteran faces are what keep the crowd coming back for more. He tells me how his business is tanking (How!? Is there like a dearth of horny bastards in the country all of a sudden?) and how he needs Jackie back, sans the baby (I cringe when he says this, mostly because I can’t argue otherwise anymore). I feel Jackie’s nails digging into the back of my neck, and I imagine them leaving little crimson crescents.

“I really wish I could help you…bharwa.” How does this guy enjoy being called that? “But I can’t do anything for you. The fetus is at 22 weeks, it’s fast transitioning into a proper humanoid form. Abortions at this late a stage carry a very high health risk –”

“Babu aap isko humain dedo, we’ll take care of her. Hum randi bharwe walon ke paas bhi paisa kam nai hai akhir.” He smirks and the golden canine blinds me with its glare. As much as I want to take a crack at him like I did with the maulvi, the pressure of Jackie’s nails tells me to play it safe instead.

“I didn’t say anything about the money,” I try again, “the chances of her dying if I do what both of you ask me to are higher than if she just goes on and has normal childbirth. That’s my medically sound opinion.”

“The chances of my business getting fucked in the ass are higher if she stays this way. That’s my professionally sound opinion.” So this arrogant son-of-a-bitch wants to tango.

“Look, bharwe,” my tone isn’t so polite anymore, “I don’t care about your business, I care about the patient and her health. The fetus is at 22 weeks; it can experience pain. It’s survival rate outside the mother is higher than 10 percent, which means that by all medical standpoints, there is every reason to not perform this operation anymore.” I know he’s too fucking stupid to get what I’m saying, but I need to make this clear, “I’m sorry, but I took a fucking oath when I became a doctor, and I intend to keep that.”

There’s an awkward silence in the room while everyone weighs the words. Jackie stopped digging her nails into my neck and is now just sitting tepidly in one corner of the room, her breaths coming heavy, her eyes unblinking. I want to hold her in my arms and squeeze her (breasts) and tell her it’s going to be okay, but the midget springs a retort on me before I can do anything.

“Waise, nikah nama bhi oath hi hota hai, kyun babu?” he cracks his knuckles as he says this – they echo menacingly against the quiet in the room, “Jackie ke sath to woh oath ghayab hojata hai.” He looks up at me as if he’s won the argument.

“I thought you guys were all about making an honest earning,” I’m very calm as I start – this pimp-midget doesn’t know what’s coming to him, “and I’m not one to violate that. She wants money, and I’m the only client she’s got. Doesn’t mean I won’t make her work for it.” It wipes the triumphant expression off his face: Yippee-ki-yay, motherfucker.

It’s funny how inconspicuous Jackie’s made herself out to be. I’m noticing her from the corners of my eye and she’s still in the same spot, absolutely mute. I could probably get more reaction from the chair she’s sitting on. I want to signal her to come closer to me, because she looks pretty vulnerable where she is. I don’t want this stupid pimp-midget doing anything to her. He’s been quiet so far, and I’m liking it. But then he clears his throat.

“Chalo babu, sab choro. Yeh batao, kitne paison main kaam hojayega?” I can’t believe this motherfucking choot ka dhakkan! And that’s exactly what I say to him when I reply.

“Abay choot ke dhakkan salay, teri zabaan main samjhata hun. Yeh margayi,” I point to Jameela who jumps as if I’m aiming a gun at her and buries her head into her knees, “to kya tu chupay dega business chalane ke liye? Han, bol bharwe.” I’m thoroughly enjoying rubbing this into his midget-chootiya face. He reddens and clenches his fists together.

“Dekho babu, ab tak tameez se baat ki thi, teray ko samjha raha hun humara kaam kardo hum tujhay chor dainge. Choti si baat hai, chal aur nai bigarhte.” I know he’s bluffing – there’s no way a person would just give up so quickly. So I push on.

“Fuck that shit. I’ve told you there’s no way I’m fucking compromising on my medical principles. I don’t want to fucking go to jail for murder, and I don’t want to fucking remove something that can feel pain. It’s not a fucking brick anymore you stupid choot piece, I’m not going to do anything to hurt the baby anymore! Get that through that bharwa-midget head of yours!” I bellow these words, and I can feel the veins in my neck bulging; Jackie bursts into tears; the pimp is shell-shocked.

For a while, there is no sound in the room other than Jameela’s sobs.

“So…you’re her only client then, eh?” he inquires after a long pause.

I’m not sure where he’s going with this.

“Yeah…at least until the baby’s out of her…the natural way.” I say.

What happens next seems to occur all at once. The bharwa says something along the lines of  “Dekhtay hain tu bhi kab tak isko rakhta hai”, lunges for the first thing he can get on the shelf behind him and chucks a glass bottle at Jameela with all the force his midget body can muster. The next split-second, the sound of her screams rips through the room and I realize that Jameela’s face is literally melting because of the acid that’s eating through her. The bharwa flashes another one of his Cheshire Cat grins, and is out of the room as I rush to Jameela to help get the corrosive shit off her.

Cancel, Retry, Abort, Repeat – 5

Tags

abort, adult, creative writing, fiction, funny, Pakistan, people, short, short story, social, story, writing

Part 5 – an extenstion – to the original story of Cancel Retry Abort. you can read parts 1 through 4 by scrolling down.

Walk the Line

Remember that report on the dead whore from a few weeks ago?

Yeah, that wasn’t Jackie

Because right now, Jackie’s kneeling between my legs, sandwiching my schlong with her moneymakers. She’s really enjoying it too – her head’s tilted back just a little, eyes are half-closed, and her lips are parted just enough to let out a soft moan every so often. She looks like someone perpetually stuck blowing a kiss.

You’re probably wondering what she’s doing here, or why she isn’t dead yet, but I’ll get to that once she’s done giving me my happy ending. Now she’s clamped onto my dolphin like an octopus’ sucker; her tongue against my (fore)skin is just divine. She adjusts herself to give me an exquisite view down her back to her ass, and I close my eyes and start wondering how Naina would take to the idea of private lessons because it’s amusing and I want to pace myself. Tugtugtug, a stifled gasp from both of us, and I feel the warmth of her mouth disappear as I open my eyes and start reaching for my pants.

“Boss, kaisa diya?” She asks me, wiping her mouth with a wet tissue, an impish smile on her face.

“Holy fuck” is the only thing I can say. I get up but the ‘head’ rush makes me sit back down. Jameela smiles at me as she hooks her bra and pulls an oversized jersey on top of it. She leaves her hair open though, and the auburn lowlights fall messily over her face; I feel the urge to throw her on the table and avalanche into her – she probably won’t even complain.

But that would hurt the thing she’s carrying inside her. The thing she still wants me to get rid of.

“Sahab…woh…kaam –” she tries bringing the conversation around.

“Han, that…han that I’m still not going to do.” I say flatly; she suddenly looks crestfallen. “Jameela, we’ve been over this – you’re close to 19 weeks now. By this time nobody’s willing to touch the bab-fetus.” I’m not lying to her, not entirely at least, and I keep my face as solemn as possible.

“But sahib aap ne kaha tha aaj hojayega! Usi ki khushi main to aap ko maza diya,” she says, “ab mera bhi to kaam kardo na? please na?” She pouts and twirls her fingers through the hair. She looks fucking gorgeous to me, even with that weird bulge in her belly. I want to listen to her, but there is enough medical evidence to keep me from doing so. And I’m not going to go to hell over a dead baby.

“Nope, sorry, can’t do it,” I’m shuffling papers on my desk and pretending like the service that she just provided didn’t happen. “I really need you to understand Jameela, you’re too far in to get out now. I mean, sahi hai the fetus doesn’t have very high chances of survival on its own, but,” I’m looking for something to throw at her “do you know it has ears now? It can hear us.” I can’t believe that’s what I come up with, but I have faith in the dumbass Jameela is. She stops with the twirl-pout and looks at me.

“Really, sahab? It can hear everything?” there’s a flicker of fear across her face but it’s enough to click the lightbulb in my head.

“Yup, it can hear us alright. It’s heard everything we just said. It even heard someone talk about killing it.” I pause for effect – this could be my way out of this mess.

“But…so what? This is my body, meri marzi.” she fails at guising the wobble in her voice, and I press on.

“But, you don’t want to be a murderer do you?” I’m staring straight at her; she’s biting her lip and looking at me with those wide, chestnut eyes and a part of me is cursing myself for being such a fucking douchebag to her. “How could you do this to something that can’t even defend itself?” I sound like that maulana – Yahoodi Shaheed whatever-his-name – from a couple of weeks ago. I explain how when I choose to perform a procedure on a client, the fetus is equal to being dead, so there’s no harm to anyone involved.

“Magar sahab, mujhe dekho!” she points hysterically to the bulge, “I don’t want a kid, I want to go back to Sheeda! I’m ugly and I’m poor and I don’t want to be those things anymore!” her cheeks flush scarlet and she falls on the chair behind her, exhausted from the mini-tantrum. I could give a damn, but right now I’m more interested in getting this woman out of here as fast as I can. She stays in the seat with her eyes closed, her breasts heaving. I feel my boner coming back on; I swing part of the coat over my crotch.

When she opens her eyes though, I don’t see the fear from 5 minutes ago. She looks at me like a kid who figured out the trick.

“Sahab, you like my body na?” she’s speaking in a voice that I’ve only heard Naina use – when we’re in bed. “Can’t you see what this thing is doing to me? I can’t go on looking aise, I want to look beautiful,” she’s leans forward in her chair and looks at me teasingly “beautiful so that Sahab can call me back when his wife isn’t good enough.”

She’s on her feet now, strolling the room with added poise – one foot in front of the other – so that even in slacks, her hips hypnotize me with their belly-dancer sway. I want to push her up against the wall and pour myself into her. I want to fuck this woman senseless – have her fuck me senseless – because she’s the sexiest bitch I’ve seen. I shift uneasily in my chair because my boner’s threatening to tear through my pants. Bhenchod lorha, abhi tang karna hai.

“But thore time ki baat hai, aap ne bhi bulana chordena hai. You’re all alike – patli kurhi chahiye,” she continues in her Naina-voice, running her hands over her curves, looking at me in a brazenly mocking way. “Abhi to main jawan hun sahab, bohat paisa baqi hai kamane ko. Yeh chotay motay chupay laga kar aadmi pait bhar kar thori kha sakta hai, I’ll need a lot more to support myself and baby. Haye re kismet.” She sprawls herself across my desk like a heartbroken Bollywood heroine.

I ask her if she’s implying she wants money, keeping my voice as professional as I can. She retorts that she just wants to be beautiful for her sahab, keeping her voice as professional as she can. I tell her there’s nothing I can do to help, because her case is particularly special, and there are several factors to consider. “Feasibility, your health after the procedure, cost and all that jazz, you know,” I say to her. She bobs with excitement at the mere prospect of getting her way, and I smile at her. Dumbfuck, she doesn’t know what she’s in for. She gets up from her seat, visibly wound up, and runs around the table to fall into my lap; I groan because she just flattened my dick – she giggles some more. We make out a little – she lets me dandle her 38Ds some more, you know – and then I pay her 5 blues for the cleaning out my ‘drain’. I’m not going to just fucking throw money at her without a reason for it. I smack her ass and send her out the door.

I do that because a part of me says I could get used to having Jameela visit more often.

For now though, I need to get home to Naina and her 24Cs. I wonder if I should float the private lessons idea. Either that or a boob job – she could really do with those too.

Cancel, Retry, Abort – 4

Tags

abortion, fiction, first person, opinion, Pakistan, people, personal, short story, society, writing

Final section of my first full-length submission for Fiction Writing Workshop. You can read the preceding three sections here, here, and here respectively. Mature content and strong language warning; reader discretion is advised.

The War Everywhere Else

The first couple to ever walk through my door came with a baby who was about 6 months old at the time. They looked like they were lost, and that became even more apparent when they asked Javeria (the old Safiya) how much it would cost to give the baby a trim. Javeria tried explaining to them that there was a mistake and that my profession was that of a mortician, so to speak, not a beautician.

“Mortician? Yeh kya hota hai?”

When Javeria finally managed to make them understand that I didn’t deal with beautifying babies as much as I did with preventing them from being born, the couple’s eyes popped out of their heads and they rushed out as fast as they could, screaming Astaghfirullah at the top of their lungs.

So that was how the first sign – Dr. Osama Jamshed, Child Mortician Specialist – came down.

The second couple to walk through my doors came in with a 2 year old kid and begged me to take him off us. Apparently these people went a step further than the ones who thought I was a beautician and thought I was someone like Edhi running an adoption home. When Javeria again explained to them what it was I did, they held on to their child like he was a bag of diamonds and hurried out like the building was on fire. I’m sure they developed a completely new appreciation for their offspring.

I remember the first time I asked Arshad to set up the sign on the front door. He was very enthusiastic as I explained the layout and chose the design, pitching in his own ideas as well. When it came to the content I needed on the sign though, he sat quietly and listened with his gaze unwavering. I only paid attention to this when I noticed he wasn’t chirpy anymore and looked up to see him staring at me. He stayed that way for a bit, then laughed and said, “Sahib maaf karna magar aap ka mazaq bohat alag kisam ka hai.”

When I told him I was being very serious about what I wanted on the sign, his face lost a little of its color (which is saying something because his face was blacker than charcoal). He gave me a meek look and said he wouldn’t do the job and that was his final answer. I found the sudden change in manner quite surprising, and it took another hour of haggling and convincing to pry it out of him that he didn’t approve of my job and that he believed associating with me would bring bad luck to him and his business for the rest of both our lives. He also mentioned that he didn’t want to go to Hell, but all that changed when I offered to double his pay.

At first, the neighborhood was relieved that another clinic was opening in their lane. They sent sweetmeats and portions of their home-cooked meals as tokens of their appreciation. Occasionally they’d bring in their sick family members for me to check out and I’d oblige – after all, you don’t go to medical school and not learn how to fix a sore throat or a mild fever.

None of that lasted long though. When they came to realize that I wasn’t just an average doctor the sweetmeats and the home-cooked meals began to be replaced by vicious looks and open curses. At least a dozen times, armed men came knocking at my door asking me to vacate the premises immediately or face consequences. No security service accepted my request for protection, to the point where I had to file for a gun license for myself. Three times, I have been abducted by masked individuals and taken to a desolate corner of the city, beaten senseless, and then dropped back outside my office door the next morning.

They think I’m a depraved man, someone without any morals. They think my sole mission is to take away life. So they throw their dirty looks at me each day as I walk from my car to my office. They protest outside my door and tell me I sleep with the Devil at night. They threaten to kill my family and I. Mothers pull their children in tighter when I walk past them; the kids playing in the street abandon their games the minute my face appears through the door. I’m a living, breathing representation of everything they abhor.

But I know how they come to me with their heads hung low and their reputations in the balance when they make their little mistakes. They know I’m the only one with the power to wipe their slates clean, and in that moment they choose me over their gods to turn to; fucking hypocrites.

So this is how I go to work each day. They stare murderously at me, and I stare back coldly at them. They hate me for the face I give to their immoralities, and I wait for the day when they’ll be on my feet.

Angel of Death or the Devil himself, my name is Osama Jamshed, and I am an abortionist by profession. This is my war, with a people who can’t accept that they need me more than I need them.

Cancel, Retry, Abort – 3

Tags

abort, abortion, baby, child, fiction, first person, Pakistan, parent, short story, story, writing

The third part of 4 of my first full-length submission for Fiction Writing Workshop. You can find the first two parts by clicking here, and here respectively. Strong language and mature content warning; reader discretion is advised.

The War At Home

It’s late at night – about 11 – when I pull in through the gates. Ishaq greets me at the door and informs me that baji is at the dinner party at the Qayyum’s and that there’s food in the microwave and that Shayan had been in a fight with some kids at school and that I shouldn’t wait up on her. He also mentions that baji looked really nice and that she wore the dress I got her from my last trip to Singapore. I look at him with a raised eyebrow and he smiles back at me sheepishly saying, “hum samjha sahib ko jaanna hoga.”

I drop the car keys, walk towards the kitchen and look into the microwave. There’s some weird goop inside that makes me lose my appetite. I browse through the fridge and find some anday aloo and start eating it right out of the box with a fork. I walk upstairs and hear some noises from the master bedroom – the door’s ajar and the flickering lights mean that the TV is on and Shayan is awake.

The TV is on to Cartoon Network but he’s not really watching. Instead, he’s sitting on the bed hunched over a sheet of paper scribbling away with some crayons. He only looks up for a second when I walk through the door and then resumes his activity.

“Shayan beta, shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“I’m not sleepy Baba.”

I sit next to him and he stops coloring and shows me what he’s made. It’s a sketch of one of the characters on the TV show I don’t know the name of. It’s pretty bad, even for a seven year old; I just smile and say, “Very nice,” and ruffle his hair a little. We resume watching cartoons silently.

“So your mum tells me you got into a fight with some boys at school today?” I start, keeping my tone steady and relaxed – I don’t want to scare him.

“They were saying mean things about you Baba,” he says without looking up, “I told them it wasn’t nice and they shouldn’t say bad things but they didn’t stop and then Jaffar pushed me so I hit him.” He lifts his head to look at me wide-eyed and innocent, sporting a bruise over his left eye.

“Shayan, we talked about this, right? You’re not a bad boy like the rest of them; you’re not supposed to fight, ever. Nothing good comes out of it.”

“But Baba they were being mean!” He flails his hands to show that he was helpless. Oddly enough, I get him.

“What did they say?”

His eyes immediately dart away. “I can’t tell you.”

“I need to know what they said so we can know if they were really being mean or not though. Can you–”

“No.”

“Shayan Jamshed, look at me and answer my question right now, please.” The tone is enough.

“They said you were Shaitaan. They said Allah Mian doesn’t like you. They said you kill little babies and you’ll kill me one day. They said I was Shaitaan ka bacha. I told them they were lying and that you’re not Shaitaan but they just kept being mean. I tried to not fight them Baba, I even went to the teacher and complained but she laughed and,” the tears start, “said that – hic – those boys were right and – hic – you were an evil monster.” He lunges at me and burrows his head into my stomach, almost knocking the air out. I sit there awkwardly ruffling his hair and trying to calm him down. It takes a while, but it works.

“Beta, I can’t say that you did the right thing; you shouldn’t have hit them.”

“But–”

“Na, let me finish. You shouldn’t have hit them, Shayan. The next time someone starts bullying you like that I want you to just run far away from them okay? Don’t fight them.”

“But then they’ll think I’m a coward Baba!” He jumps on the bed.

“Let them. Sticks and stones may break our bones but words should never matter, yeah? They’ll get over it themselves. Can you promise me this won’t happen again?”

He thinks it over for a while, then nods his head slightly.

Good, I think. Crisis averted.

“Baba,” he starts timidly, “you don’t… kill babies, do you?”

It takes a few moments for the question to fully register.

I pick my scared bundle of a son and squeeze him very, very tightly. I let go and take his face in my hands. His eyes are like those of a deer about. I realize in this moment that my son is genuinely afraid of what he thinks I am.

“Shayan, I want you to pay attention to what I’m about to tell you, okay? I don’t kill babies. I’m not Shaitaan. I love babies; I love you too, you know that right?” He nods. “Sometimes, people make mistakes. Just like you make a mistake in your homework sometimes. Now, sometimes, when people make mistakes, something bad happens to them. They start feeling sick – a special kind of sick. Only I can help them, so they come to me. I help them get better by removing the sick part. That’s all I do.”

He’s looking down at his hands, playing with his fingers. “I don’t kill any babies, Shayan, and I’m certainly never going to do anything to harm you!”

He stays quiet; I get scared.

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

He gives me a tiny smile, and I relax.

“Then why do those kids say such mean things about you?”

“I don’t know, Shayan. Some people are good, and they think that it’s a good idea to help people with this sickness. Others think it’s a bad thing, and that people who make mistakes should be punished and not helped. They think I’m a bad person – even Shaitaan himself – for helping them, and that’s why I think they say mean things.”

“Oh, okay. But then who’s right?”

“Only Allah Mian knows, beta. I think I’m right, but there are people who think I’m not. But that doesn’t mean we have to fight to prove our point, which is why you shouldn’t ever fight.”

“Okay, Baba,” he yawns – his attention span for this conversation is over. “I think I’ll go to sleep now.”

I look at the clock and it is 1:30 in the morning. I poke Shayan out of bed and force him to his room, make sure he gets dressed in his PJs and tuck him into bed. I stay standing by the door watching him sleep till Naina comes in. We’re too tired for much talk so she gives me a summary of her late night affair; the weird glances, the innuendos in conversation.

She says she’s thankful I wasn’t there, and I tell her I feel guilty that she had to be.

This is not their battle.

Cancel, Retry, Abort – 2

Tags

abort, abortion, fiction, first person, funny, mullah, Pakistan, religious, short story, writing

Part 2 of 4 of the first full-length story I wrote for Fiction Writing Workshop. You can read the first part here. Strong language and mature content warning; reader discretion is advised

Bi-Standards

It’s just another day at the office; Safiya is running late because of a paiyya jam hartaal which means you’ll see nothing short of a donkey cart for miles. I’m sitting behind the desk, feet propped up on the table watching re-runs of the talk shows on the TV in the opposite corner.

Friday’s are generally slow days; something about the ‘holiness’ of things makes people avoid me more than they normally would. I don’t mind it – as long as there are those in need, my doors (and pockets) are open.

I call up Arshad at the paint shop and ask him if he can have someone sent down to fix the sign up front. Last night some laundas threw a bunch of water-balloons filled with black paint. He gives me his usual story about how he doesn’t have any men, but immediately agrees to have someone down within the hour when I tell him I’ll throw in some extra money for his service. What a bhenchod, I think.

Safiya makes it and begins to follow up on the appointments for the day. Most request being rescheduled to another day but some of them say they’ll come in towards the evening.

An hour goes by and the front bell rings. I had told Safiya I was expecting Arshad and that he should be let in the minute he shows up. It’s quite surprising then, when the door to my office opens without any warning and in walks a man in his late 40s, clad in starched white shalwar kameez with a stylish looking Arabic turban on his head and a beard that would give Gandalf a run for his money. He has a tasbih in one hand, and the smell of paan emanating from him is worse than any body odor.

He gives me a huge smile, teeth covered in red ooze and bits of betel nut sticking out between them, and seats himself uninvited across from me. I watch the entire spectacle half amused and then just stare at him silently as he continues to grin at me, chewing away at his paan like a cow.

“How can I help you?” I ask.

“Mera naam Maulana Yaqoob Shahood Alvi hai,” his name sounds very familiar, and I wonder if he’s another one of those pseudo-celebrities you see on TV. He introduces himself as the imam of the neighborhood mosque, here to discuss some ‘mazhabi umoor’ with me. He speaks as if building up to a point; I’m suddenly conscious of how small this room is.

I ask him to proceed and he launches straight into things – the whole ‘Allah is the creator of the Universe’ and the start of the cosmos thing. I try to focus but I’m more fascinated by the balancing act his tongue is engaged in with the paan. He says something about life and death and how ‘sab kuch Allah ke hath main hai’; I bob my head mechanically. It’s like the son of a bitch decided to dump his whole Friday sermon on me. He’s got his head inclined and is swaying back and forth like a bobblehead doll, droning on in a single frequency. He’s saying something; I’m bored. I try to picture him naked, and gag a little on the vomit in my throat just as he looks up and says “kya aap meray sath is baat par muttafiq hain?”

His manner catches me off guard. What the hell does he want?

“I…guess, but –”

“Ab kyunke hum yeh jaante aur maante hain ke Allah ke siwa zindagi aur maut kisi ke hath main nahin, to kya aap mujhe bata sakte hain ke aap kis ki authority par Malaik’ul Maut bane phir rahe hain? Who died and made you the Grim Reaper, boy?”

He transitions in accent from those maulanas you saw on PTV as a kid to a purebred hillbilly accent.

“Wait, you speak English?”

“Of course, you think I’m a dumbass?”

“Well, that’s arguable.”

He raises an eyebrow along with his voice, “Just answer my question. Who do you think you are?” he then makes a weird throaty noise and lobs a gob of red from his mouth neatly to my wastebasket – an easy distance of about 6 feet.

“Listen, Maulana Sahib, the way I see it, I’ve got a right to an honest earning and I’m obligated by religion to help those in need. Ergo, I’m taking the middle ground.”

“Middle ground? You are bordering on blasphemy! It is up to Allah to decide who lives and who dies, not you!” His cheeks are flushing red, and he takes great pains to enunciate each syllable in Allah, as if his faith is contingent upon it alone.

“So you’re saying that if a rape victim comes to me asking me to abort a child because she can’t face the humiliation of having a bastard, I shouldn’t help her?”

“Of course you shouldn’t help her!” He may as well declare a fatwa on it. “Such women are of loose character and they bring such fates upon themselves. They should be paraded naked on the streets, whipped in public and then stoned to death, but never helped. You are partaking in great sin chap. The wrath of Allah is upon you. On the Day of Reckoning you will—”

“Do you realize how fucking absurd you sound?”

“Excuse me,” he huffs haughtily, “It’s a perfectly rational argument.”

“I don’t think you’d be a man of God if you had rational capability, Maulana Sahib,” I say in the pleasant manner of an air-hostess. He stops chewing and tries to take in the statement. He fails.

“Scientifically speaking,” I continue, “the timeframe in which I operate makes the fetus about as alive as a brick. My standards are set in stone. That’s why I do it, because from a scientific–”

“Your science is bullshit! There is life in the womb from the moment of conception, and you take it away! You are a murderer of the worst degree! The lowest corners of Hell are reserved for you!” He starts to rise out of his chair, bits of betel and red flicking everywhere, pointing an accusatory finger at me. I try some damage control.

“Well, I think there’s only one real thing I can say to you in the face of all that, Maulana Sahib,” I pause for dramatic effect, “Fuck your mother. There’s the door, goodbye.”

There’s a sickening splat as a big wad of red falls out of the bastard’s half-open mouth. It lands on his kameez and a stain begins to grow like he’s bleeding. For a second, he looks like one of my clients after a procedure. I lean back into my chair with a smug look.

He scoops out his fetus-like gloop and throws it in the wastebasket. He returns to his seat, sighs, and says, “It seems my argument was not convincing enough. Very well, let me make you an offer then.”

“What can you possibly–”

“You will give me 20 percent of your net weekly income on a fortnightly basis. In return, I will keep my nose out of your business.”

It’s my turn to raise eyebrows now.

“Maulana Sahib, are you asking me to bribe you? I know I’m rusty, but aren’t we both doomed to Hell for it?”

“I shall pray for your safety in the Hereafter. Allah will understand and forgive,” he says casually.

“What if I don’t pay? I don’t make a lot,” I bluff.

“You make 80,000 a week when you have fewer patients. On busy weeks you make 150,000 easily. Surely, sparing some money for the masjid is peanuts.” The stress on the numbers makes him sound like a creeper – a creeper with his facts straight, though.

And this is when it hits me like a kick to the crotch – why this man’s name is so familiar. “But Maulana Sahib, you only had to tell me you’re asking for a cut in your business,” I smile like the Cheshire Cat. The Maulana looks at me as if he’s about to throw a punch, but his pause is long enough for me to continue. “You only had to ask, seeing how your exploits outside of the mosque are what bring me a lot of that money anyway.” The muscles in his throat constrict a little and he gulps.

“I don’t know what you’re –”

“Save it, Yeti, let’s get this record straight. Ask me for money, one more time, and I’ll drive your head through a fucking ATM machine,” I feel like a mafia overlord –Don Corleone maybe.  “We’re joined at the hip, you and I. you can’t threaten me with shit.”

Maulana Yaqoob Shahood Alvi looks at me coldly, as if I called his mother a whore. He knows I’m not lying. There is an odd stillness in the room as we size each other up, wondering who’ll make the next move. It’s like an intense chess match. The ceiling fan looks appealing – I imagine hanging the maulvi off it.

“Well, Doctor Sahib, shukria for your time,” he suddenly returns to his initial demeanor; I do a little victory dance in my head. “I just felt it was important to share my views, but you make a strong argument as well.” He shakes my hand while he uses the other to cover that psychedelic red pattern on his kameez. My victory dance has been upgrade to a full Broadway ensemble.

He asks if I could spare some money for the masjid, just as he reaches for the door. I reach into my fat wallet and flick a five rupee coin at his feet. “That’s all you get,” I say. He bends down and picks it up, mumbles a Jazakallah as he pockets the metal, and is out the door.

I don’t know where I stand in the eyes of my faith, but I certainly wonder how that maulana sleeps at night.