Holy Man

The white cloth covered the glass table, it was off-white. There was a stain in the corner that the elderly washing lady had not been able to see, her vision was getting worse, you see. The baji of the house would give the washing lady a piece of her mind the next morning. The woman would listen in silence, head hung low, listening, listening, until baji would cool down.

The dinette smelled of onions and garlic and tomatoes and oil. The chef was cooking dinner. Air was wafting in through the kitchen attached to the small room with the table. The man waited as he brushed his beard with the palm of his hand. A boy came in murmured something to his old ustaad, and the elderly teacher asked him to repeat himself. The boy repeated the greeting in the ancient way, louder. The ustaad smiled.

The pots whistled and hissed from the kitchen.

He opened the religious text, the ustaad put his old wrinkled hand on the boy’s. The boy looked up, and realized what he was missing. He found the cap in the cupboard, put it on, white as snow. He opened the book, and started to read before the hand covered his again, warm, filled with love.

The cook called out to someone, in his rough, coarse voice. He called out the door of the kitchen that led into the alley outside, and from the dinette, the boy could see a man shuffle towards the rickety pair of steps that led up to the kitchen.

He began to recite. The old man closed his eyes, palms placed in front of him, on the white cloth which in turn was on the glass table, embracing one another.

The cook hobbled down the two steps, hand on the rail, and walked outside. The pots whistled weakly.

The sun set. The weak red glow lit up the alley outside the kitchen. He recited and sneaked glances at the windows.

The ustaad’s eyes slowly fluttered open. He smiled lovingly at the boy who stuttered.

The boy recited from the book. Eyes winced as he closed, and tried to recite from memory the passages he was learning. The ustaad corrected his pronunciation. If he did this, he would go to heaven, he had been told. And it made his dad really happy. And he wanted to make his dad really happy. Those thoughts ran through his head. It’s not that he enjoyed it for it’s sake. He enjoyed it for his dad’s sake. Enjoy was maybe too strong a word. He did it for his dad’s sake. His dad loved it when he could recite passages from the book.

A fast thundering came down the stairs. His mother walked over, greeted the man with respect in her voice, the respect he was afforded by society, and told the boy that she was going out. The Holy Man returned the greeting, his voice soft and lilting, nodded his head, gaze averted.

She turned a lamp on in the lobby of the magnificent house, adjusted the drapes: they hadn’t been draped according to her liking, and left.

The boy stuttered. The man spanked him. He knew what was coming next. The ustaad would grab his hand, and put it down there.