One of those days I took the calf and its mother out for a bath in the river. After passing the bazaar, we had to take a tricky turn, which was flanked by the highway on one side and Abbu’s aara machine on the other, the blade of which was sharper than a sword’s. The river was a few steps away. We were making the turn when the calf saw Abbu and ran like crazy towards him. Can you imagine a baby animal leaving its mother to run to a human being? And there was no way the mother would stay still without its young one. Seeing it run, she followed. I tried as hard as possible but there was no way I could match the strength of the hefty beast, even more so when it was being propelled by strong emotions.
Worried, Abbu ran towards them too, to cut their dangerous trip short and avoid an accident on the highway or death by the aara machine. The drama ended in minutes, with the angelic calf rolling at Abbu’s feet snuggling him with his muzzle and its mommy doting over it. Abbu and I heaved sighs of relief. The river was in plain sight but these two would just not budge. Buffaloes are addicted to water. And here they were ignoring it altogether.
After this, there was no way Abbu could bring himself to make that qurbani. The next day was Eid. When all of us got home, there was unanimous agreement on buying a doomba from the market and that was just what we did. The calf and its mummy lived happily ever after with us, but more importantly for them, with Abbu.
* * *
On nippy days, we would gather on the terrace, huddling around a coal-powered angeethi for warmth, listening to entertaining tales. Abbu loved telling us stories about his adventures, most of them imaginary. But then, for children there is little difference between imagination and reality. So it did not matter to us whether his tales were true or false; we listened wide-eyed with wonder, believing every word that fell on our ears. Like the one about his meeting with Amitabh Bachchan, who in those days had just become a member of Parliament. Abbu used to visit Delhi frequently those days for work. During his latest trip, he narrated how he had met the superstar in Parliament. It did not strike us then that a small farmer from a village would not even be allowed to enter the gates of Parliament, leave alone walk right inside and meet an MP, not just any MP, but Mr Bachchan himself!
‘I walked in and I told Amitabh Bachchan . . .’ Abbu said.
‘What? What did you tell Amitabh Bachchan, Abbu?’ we begged in suspenseful chorus.
‘I said, “Now you won’t be able to do films, Bachchanji, right? You are in politics now.” Amitabh Bachchan replied instantly, “Arrey, Nawab Saheb, ab kahaan filmein. Bas ab to sirf politics! ”’
I latched on to every word, awestruck. If my Abbu could meet Amitabh Bachchan, then he could do anything. However, as I grew up and became mature, the falseness of his anecdotes began to strike me the moment he would begin narrating. What a small man my father is, I would think. He tries to become a big man based on lies. Soon though, I realized how desperate he was. And instead of hating him, I began to love my father even more for his lies. All Abbu wanted was to be a hero in the eyes of his children, even if he was a failure in his own eyes and in the eyes of the world. It was such an endearing attempt; it’s hard not to melt into tears.
Something strange was also happening. It can only be described as a miraculous side effect of this concoction of our naïveté and his fibs. We believed his false tales as truth. These instilled in all of us an enormous confidence. Because, if a petty, insignificant farmer could meet India’s greatest superstar, then we could do anything. It allowed us to dream big, it allowed us to feel we were limitless. And perhaps that is why all of us became who we are today.
Right until he became old, very, very old, Abbu kept narrating his tales. He repeated them hundreds of times. And we listened with the same wide-eyed wonder each time. Our bewilderment was unreal but our respect and love were 100 per cent genuine. Because, now we listened for different reasons—we did not want to break his heart or let our old man feel let down even a little bit.
4Ammi
My Ammi’s parents named her Mehrunnisa. They must have been psychic because the name’s meaning—a lady who showers love—is exactly what Ammi is. Everyone called her Mehrun for short. She came from a village called Gairana, which was even smaller than ours. So her dream of me becoming something in life was even bigger. But she was well educated for those circumstances, for those times. There was a tradition of
