#the lack of an in-cinema poster to take a photo of forced me to get creative. which is never a bad thing. this kinda fucks

[echthr0s]

[letterboxd log 2024 | 87/?] ⪀ Longlegs, 2024; dir. Osgood Perkins

[reedsy-short-stories]

The Glory of Ramadan

by M.A.Q. Rizvon

In the sparsely clouded western sky the splendor of the setting sun was paling into a silvery twilight when the crescent, heralding the birth of Shavval , came into view. And all at once, gleams of joy crept into a million eyes and a million houses rang with the laughter of children rejoicing the eve of Eid.

 Young men congregated in groups of eight or ten and stormed the stalls vending hot jilaebis and steaming glasses of milk. They had the most important task to fulfill.  Finalise tomorrow’s programme of visits to relations and photo studios and the inevitable cinemas.

 And rosy cheeked maidens in the full bloom of youth lay back on sofas or mattresses and pillows spread on floors.  Their joy was in reviewing toorrow’s informal parade of new dresses, new makeup and who knows, start, Insha Allah, of a new romance; the long awaited one could be a guest mong relatilons coming in toconvey Eid Greetings with gifts and flowers in hand.

But in a miserable dwelling in an ill lit quarter of the city, a young man in his underclothes was pacing his little room up and down. Yet another of the educated unemployed,      scions of families clinging to a near regal past and a most difficult present of a jobless and penniless concerns.  An ill managed charity trust helped him meet the barest essentials of a college education. For his living expenses, his eye raised to Allah nd somehow starvation was kept at bay.  The local parliamentarian patronage and he made a handsome living writing speeches and managing his informal office at a low, low remuneration.

 On this night of nights when even the poorest of the land were looking forward to an Eid of Fith’r doles from the affluents, he found no silery lining beyond the dim electric bulbt that was his best companions for nights of worries and lack of sleep. He hd a knotty problem to solve and his inborn good sense preventied him from howling and banging walls to buff out his despair. Nothing in the world allow him to add to the pains and problems of his widowed mother.

 He had yielded to an indiscretion that was unavoidable at his age.  Brand new and gorgeous clothes for Eid! He felt desperate as he reviewed his hopeless situation.   He the foloshness to walk to the city’s high class outfitter – patronized by the Khan Sahib –and ordered a princely attire for himself.  Sherwani, jibba and pyjama of expensive material. The bill: twothousand five hundred rupees!  And it had to be paid and the clothes taken before 8 A.M. the next morning. The tailor was a decent guy but a man of business.  Terms cash and no dithering.  If the deadline was not met, he would call in another client, whose measurements were close to his own and dispose of the master cut outfit that was, as the maker said, fit for a bridegroom!

 Poor Manzoor! His was an unenviable state of mind. The more he thought about the challenge facing him, the more desperate became his state of mind. From where could he hope to earn such a huge sum within so short a time? He had none to help him except his aged, widowed mother whose only  source of funds was a paltry amount of just a thousand rupees she could collect by way of rent for a thatched house in  a distant part of the city.  That too had been spent away days ago. And she could meet household expenses only with the small amounts kind hearted neighbours would lend her now and then. There was not  the faintest hope of his need being fulfilled.

 Yet his determination proved irrevocable.  For, at the age of twenty, he could not be expected to resist the temptations of romance that was being thrust upon every young person from the books, magazine and wall posters all around the city.  

 Hence, it was but natural for him to look upon rich and vivacious Rifath’s regard for him as blind, uninitiated love. To him, the fact did not appear to be of any worth that the courtesy and high regard she extended to him was not for him as a suitor but for his talent as an up and coming Urdu poet and public speaker of rare charm. but her admiration of his talent in composing and reciting exquisite ghazals, lyrics, at youth mushairah’s at the college. And, at literary events in their city, she was asked to introduce him and she called him “My dear friend” and praised him as the “pre eminent poet of the age”. This earned him the jealousy and rage of the high brows who hovered around her on such occasions. And he had felt elated when his own friends called him “Rifath’s boy friend”.

 He felt he owed her the duty to appear immaculately dressed at her Eid party the next evening.  He could not think of any dress other than the Shae rwani and Pyjama that the tailor was getting ready for him, as suitable for the occasion. It was indeed a pity that his abject penury could prevent him from taking delivery of those clothes before eight in the morning when the tailor was sure to find another buyer of his own size for them.

 His mother called him for the night meal but he declined, saying he had been to an Ifthaar party hosted by a friend and they had dumped too many savories on his plate and he would not be able to eat anything more. Unlike other moms she had learnt to respet his oddities and left him alone to sort out his thoughts and soften his mood.

 The city had settled down to a quiet though uneasy sleep. He lay down on his cot (a chaarpaayeeh,  bed formed of a bamboo frame with zigzagging fibre ropes for body rest) and tried to lull himself to sleep.  But an hour crawled by and he could find no respite from the anguish that was choking him..He rose and resumed his practice of pacing up and down his small room and pausing now and then to thump his clenched fist on its lone  table and frowning at his own reflection in the mirror nailed to the wall behind it.

 In the past this drama had helped him to cool down and keep his agony from a violent outburst that could shock his mother. But on this memorable night, it failed him and he had to discipline himself.

 The timepiece on the table told him it was nearing midnight. He realized he could ignore his soaring emotions no more.  The stuffy atmosphere of the room was suffocating him. And his lungs yearned for the fresh air outside. He dressed himself and came out, telling his mother he would have a glass of tea from the stall nearby and came out.

 The night was, unbelievably, pleasant.  A cool breese was on and the thin strilp of starstudded sky amidst the parallel rows of houses in the narrow street was so beautiful and soothing to his nerves and his mental agitation.

 He walked on at a brisk pace, not caring where he was going and why. He felt he should not lose hope. There could be a way out of this mire, the way things in his life had sorted themselves out. He seemed to be in for mental fatigue as he forced himself again and again to think out some way or the other of earning twothousand five hundred rupees before daybreak..  He had no problem finding his way as he had grown up in these narrow and winding lanes and he felt quite safe and sure something would turn up in time to relieve his agony.

 With doubts crisscrossing his mind, it took him half an hour to reach the posh area of the city that was nicknamed by the less fortunates as the Aristoland. The lights wee brighter and more decorous, the tree lined avenue was best maintained and freed of both the dust and grime of other localities. Both sides of this imperious roadway, stood the mansions of the rich and the might, each an enclosed .half acre of manicured lawn and colourful foliage.

 Manzoor noted that only one of the mansions had it lights on and it was the ancestral home of Nawab Mohsin Khn, the current Mayor of the city. Maybe the Leader, as his followers called him, was preparing the speech over radio, that was an annual event of Ramadan. If he had called on the great man earlier in the day, he could have done some good to the rich man and also earned a handsome reward. Maybe the opportunity was not lost. He quickened his pace and reached the mansion within seconds.

 The ornate gate, painted green and gold, opened as he reached it.  The security guard gave him a sylish salute. And like a courtier from their Moghul past, he made a deep bow and said “Welcome Badshah!” as though e was receiving a monarch and not a young man seeking a job and a reward.  He led Manzoor to the huge office room and asked him to be seated. And he called the Nawab Saheb over the intercom and informed him of the young man’s arrival and left. .

 Manzoor sat back, in fact, he sank into the deep comfort of the imported sofa. For once he felt the aura of high living and felt himself a part of fit. He felt the load was off his chest ad he breathed easy and relaxed. Already, from his heart and in his mind, he felt the upsurge of a strange new feeling.  Was it courage, toughness, bravery, the daring to take on the opposition and care not for the consequence?

 The door opened and the Nawab came in.  He was handsome and sprightly, more like Captain Pataudi than the robust, rotund and regal rich of the time. The young visitor rose and walked up to him and they shook hands.

 The big man was eloquent in his welcome: “Khush Aamdeed and Eid Mubarak! I mso happy you came.  Be seated we have to talk lot”.

 “I’ m sorry to disturb you at this hour, Khan Saheb. I was psssing this way with friends than I saw the lights were on and dared to come in”.

 “Manzoor Khan!” It was the big man’s specialty to share his own title with all his friends. “You know we don’t stand on formalities.  You’re welcome any time. But this time it is a Rahmath. blessing, from Allah that you came“.

“Harayeh Khidmah” the visitor said and rose. :If there is anything I can do for you.  We’re honored when you praise us like this”.

 The Khan’s hand signaled him to remain seated and he said, “I don’t know if you were there.  I didn’t go to the Urs of the Dargah last night. Two groups clashed instead of offering salutations and respects to the great saint. The police informed me the riiot was started by the ruffians hired by those who gain from violent upheavals like this. The Chief Minister called me. He was deeply concerned.  Two guys, one a student and the other a salesman are in hospital with serious wounds.  They will recover but the peace and calm  of our city hs been shattered. The CM has asked me to discuss the event with leaders and advise them to reunite and restore the sanctity of the mausoleum.  The Urs had been going onr fo over a thousand years. Other festivals are to follow.  We cannot afford these events of joy and bonhomie to be turned into rowdy battles. I have assured him of my fullest support. And I have convened a leaders’ meeting tomorrow after Eid. Prayers. We will issue a nice appeal to the conscience of the people not to allow even a single repeat  of such devilry anywhere in our district.”

  “If I can write ……”

 “Yes. Sure you’re the best guy for the job.  Here are my notes.  I have a telephone interview with a pressman an hour from now.  And my address to the elders’ meeting tomorrow.  And finally, the masterpiece: Our Joint appeal to the citizens.  Do your best. Allah Will Help You.  This time you will be earning sawaab, religious rewards, from Allah when you reunite people’s hearts and keep them from killing and wounding one another”.

 The Khan rose and walked to the door. He turned and said, “I’ll be back after an hour at the latest. Write as best as you can.  You know my message: Our young people must learn to control and avoid anger and fury.  All the tragedies we have suffered through history resulted from our failure to control our temper.  Our Prophet taught us to keep our cool, whatever the provocation. He is Our Role Model. We must adopt his Uswathul Hus’naa, his incomparable excellence of character and behavior. This is the best guide for our advancement in life.  Allah’s Help is gained and people also take a liking to us. Most people who gain wealth end up with more enemies than friends.  Our Prophet wants us to win hearts and earn triumph through superior thinking and magnificence towards people”.

 The Khan left, closing the door silently after him so the

people inside the mansion would not be disturbed after the hard day they had, of Eid preparations.

             Manzoor collected the papers and took over the desktop he was used to work on. He thought of the long years his family had been allied with the Khan family. His father was the Estate Manager and his mother the best teacher in the free school started by the Khan’s Begum and funded by the Khan himself. The Khan had four sons of his own and yet he doted on Manzoor for his welcomspecial talents in English writing. His boys also liked him and welcomed him, as Dada, elder brother. He retained their trust and regard by scoring the highest runs and  taking the most wickets in all regional tournaments.

            A streak of pain flashed through his being as the memory asserted itself of the disaster his family had suffered in a deadly train accident that turned him into an orphan.The Khan stood by them and remained their constant support ever since. Yet his mother, who was proud of her own ancestry, declined to be dependent on her husband’s employer. She had earned honors in her teaching and sports management of the city’s famed English school. She allowed him to avail the scholarship from a Charity fund.  But for all other expenses, Mom’s salary and even her jewels were at his son’s disposal. But the son, equally a conscientious young man, had never exceeded the monthly allowance she gave him.  

            But she did not oppose her son’s close friendship with the Khan’s children and their dad took liking to him and Manzoor took care of his office work off and on. The pay was good and on this Eid night, he put in extra care and fulfilled his task to the big Mayor’s satisfaction and received a rich reward. With profound thanks he left for home.

            There was a nice breeze as he reached the highway and he felt he could break into a dance. There were five thousand rupees in his pocket.  The tailor would receive half of it and the rest would make his Eid a fabulous experience. He would spend some and save the rest. Mom would never take anything from him. The last time he tried to share with him the prize money  from an essay competition won  by him, there were tears in her eyes and he had to run back to his room to hold his own.

            He thought of going to the tailor whose shop was en route and he should be at work even at that late hour a it was the eve of Eid. He could try his clothes on and satisfy himself that they were indeed of the Paris design and finish as the tailor had promised him.  And he winked to himself in a bout of self confidence as he imagined how he would look, tall and triumphant as he faced his adversaries when he would appear at Rifath’s gala Eid party in his immaculate attire. And Rifath? He checked himself.  That was for tomorrow, No hurry!