Dishonesty

Dishonesty (I) I am Head Master of Government High School for boys. I have held this post for the last seventeen years, at Murad Pur –third village in a circle of five villages fifteen miles away from Okara district. During these seventeen years my position in the village has become stronger and more influential as I moved here with my wife of being married for more then ten years. Initially people were curious about me but they were friendly, appeared to be hospitable and very soon they started to invite us for dinners arranged to celebrate marriages and harvests. This village has four to five hundred houses, mostly made of a combination of mud and brick; a few of the houses are more modern reminding the colonial era and portraying the household’s prosperity. It is connected with other villages by a road on which dust remains heavy and settled on. When a motor cycle or scooter passes by, the traveler seems to be splashed in dirt. A muddy track of almost a furlong, connecting the village with main road is occupied by stray dogs that pass most of their time either sleeping or fighting amongst themselves for scraps of meat, but they put aside their differences when they spot a common foe. They trot along any stranger vehicle coming towards the village, reminding their presence by yapping at the traveler’s heels from little distance, and return back once he is recognized by any villager – and if the helpless fellow is on his foot then he has to struggle to keep himself and his luggage safe from the jaws of these thugs. I personally encountered the later situation during my first visit. But the locals studiously ignored these beasts, and similarly dogs never bothered to even yep on any villager. Let me tell you one thing, I am not some one who loves his profession, I am teacher and now the head of teachers, yes, someone who is better known as a headmaster but I never found my job very interesting or challenging; why this is so I am not compelling to explain in this narrative. Suffice to say is, I accepted this job when I had no other choice; ironically I am at the same stage today as well. It had been ten years of teaching Physics, Chemistry, Biology, Urdu, and English when I was transferred to Murad Pur from Kasur district and promoted too, to keep my frustration and happiness in balance. I am not an honest person, but it does not mean I am dishonest either, actually in my whole life I have never been come to a chance for dishonesty, and the same is true about corruption. What kind of corruption can a poor village school’s headmaster indulges in with the meager resources granted him to run a decrepit school? In all these many years, I still remember my first visit to the school, when I arrived here to get an idea about the school’s whole atmosphere. If you are familiar with our public schools’ working environment, where leg pulling and conspiracies against the headmaster and clerks are always underway, you can understand my position. I was little skeptical and conscious about the school teachers, their acceptance of me and establishing relationship with them. I was really surprised when the departing headmaster told me there are only three teachers to take care of ten classes of six to ten grade and my first

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surprised response was how – the departing soul smiled, closed his eyes, put his head at the bare back of wooden chair, took a long sigh full of, perhaps, relief, opened his eyes, looked at the half torn, half framed deteriorating picture of nation’s father hanging above his head, then bend forward by putting his both hands on the table which was covered with green sheet and said “very easy sir – boys are not interested in lessons and teachers are not keen to teach - very easy – no tension, nothing to bother, those who really want to study move to city and we are left with these bloody buggers who are very much proficient only in anatomy their mothers and sisters.” Dust with small grains of wheat was filling the room, wheat thrashing machine running at the back of the school was becoming louder and louder, my interlocutor’s face was dulling in the dust and suffocation was increasing. He pointed me towards the outer door. In these seventeen years, I assure you there is no change in the situation. Everything is same, except few people who left us reluctantly by answering the divine call. Two days after my first meeting with the leaving headmaster, I came back with my wife and settled in the same house he had left and whose rent was very nominal. A wooden door, with lot of holes, was locked with a dangling iron chain which I unlocked by taking the key from the school’s peon; just after the main door a sheet, big enough in length and width, made by combining two rough rucksacks was hanging to add another layer of clandestine and to keep the passer bys’ glaring eyes at length. There was a small courtyard, a charpoy lying and another was standing against the right wall, right behind the left door was a tap in cistern with a bucket half full of water. Adjacent to it was a toilet and to take bath one has to utilize the same cistern area which I often used. A small sixty watt bulb was installed with a tiny bamboo stick in the courtyard. Two rooms, each with a separate door were quite big – in one room we settled our small furniture comprising two charpoys, few utensils, two or three tin boxes of cloths and other daily usable items – second room was spared for guests by placing four wooden chairs whose backs were enfolded with embroidered white cover and square foam seats were placed on the sitting area. A table covered with white embroidered sheet was placed in front of those chairs. My wife reserved the right side of courtyard for kitchen by putting kerosene oil hearth for cooking which we had to move during rain. My house is at the corner of a small street with six other houses quite big than mine. Street’s right end led to the only mosque of the village and left end led to the outer side of the village where fields lie. (II) Time passed with its usual lapses and I become well known and respectable in the local community. As in villages, people tend to remember others with their profession and castes; even they pass their entire life in total ignorance about the full name of their close fellows; so was the case with me and I was recognized as master gee, perhaps no one called me by my name. During these years I visited my home town some times, my wife got her friends, I was given a prominent position in the local community and at times

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nominated as the local jury - Panchayet - member to decide matters among local rivals; water theft was the most common case we were to hear. Since there was not any landlord type personality, therefore, the local jury was listened and its verdicts were generally accepted. Normally after the sun set, the banyan tree, just opposite to the mosque, became central part of the village. Farmers, iron men, blacksmith, cobbler, barber, every one came there after the dinner, few of them bring their huqqah – a smoking pipe, with them and they offer it to each others mechanically. Women normally stay at home in the evenings unless there is some ones’ marriage or any other festival. That was a usual hot summer evening, sun had been near to descend, its yellow rays were receding, birds nesting on banyan tree were calmed down, water sprinkled on the floor was sucked by the dry soil, smoke raising from the near by houses was fading out, air had been frozen somewhere, a restlessness was prevailing in the whole atmosphere, few people had been gathered around the banyan tree and each was trying to sit close to an old pedestal fan which was irritating by producing more noise than the air. As I entered in the circumference two or three boys sitting on the charpoy stood up giving me a chance to sit in front of the noisy fan but I waved at them – grabbed a wooden chair and seated with Aslam – the only merchant in the village, who was removing sweating drops from his forehead and waving himself with a hand fan. “Aao Master Gee aao – come master gee come – these mother fuckers are wrangling with each other to sit in front of fan as it was in the dowry of their mothers ”, he said in a fury which is part of every villager. Normally when villagers abuse each other, they don’t really mean, it has become their custom to call names before saying any thing. I just smiled and sat next to him. “Today is a very hot day and it is affecting people’s attitude – so don’t worry – soon the power will be off and they will stop it.”, I tried to calm him. Meanwhile other people also joined us. Wheat harvesting was in progress and every discussion topic somehow was turning to it. Farmers were praising the weather condition to harvest the wheat crop, when suddenly a cloud of smoke engulfed the whole sky and everything underneath became dark. Quarreling youth was the first who noticed it and started to yell “fire! fire” and we all rushed to the fields from where smoke was originating. Every one was running towards fire with buckets and big kettles in their hands, the dogs had started to whine , soon the noise by calmed nested birds became louder and louder, heat had been intensified and there was a chaos. Muhammad Din, a tall thin old farmer, father of four sons and a daughter, whose skin had been burned in sunstrokes, wearing a white crape shirt and apron, was standing in utter shock. His eyes were wide opened, upper teeth were injected in his lower lips, and he had grabbed his head in his long dry sickle worn hands. His boys along with other youngsters were trying to put off the fire by splashing. There was a great hustle and bustle and every grain was truing into ashes. Whole village had been gathered, an air of sorrow and mourn had started to below. Muhammad Din’s wife was crying and her daughter had grasped her

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mother from shoulders whose own eyes were full of water. Like other people, I went to Muhammad Din and condoled; he was still staring at the fire and was neither listening nor speaking. Almost mid night had been passed when finally fire was put off and I returned back to my house. Next day I was looking vacantly at the broken wall at the left side of school’s play ground, my mind was thinking about last night’s incident – as no one had explained how the crop caught fire, although people had started their guess works and their speculations were also in the air but no one was aware of the actual. Only the owner was there when this tragic incident happened who was still in shock and had not spoken a single word, when Neyamat, the school peon approached me. Neyamat is a healthy fellow with dark brown complexion and a huge tummy, always full of stories, and aware of all conspiracies going on in the village. I saw him from a distance coming towards me taking heavy breaths. I stepped towards him as he started to shout “Master Gee, Master Gee”. “Yes Neyamat – what happened? Why are you in such a great hustle?” I asked him walking towards him. “Master Gee, have you heard the latest news? Poor Muhammad Din’s news?”, he asked me while removing sweating drops from his face with large muslin scarf. “No – Is the culprit found? Who flamed the crop?” I asked impatiently. “Oho – no, no, not this news – this will be disclosed only when Muhammad Din will speak – there is another news about his daughter” “Ah – his daughter – what happened to his daughter – Is she OK?” I asked and started to walk towards my office. I clutched the acacia’s branch and started to remove its bark. “Oh gee – she is found pregnant” – he said all this at once and now there was a satisfaction on his face of delivering the news. “What – Are you crazy?” I stopped and looked at him sternly. “How can a virgin be pregnant? She is not married.” “Gee master gee – every one is talking about it. Her brothers have become wild and they are trying to kill her as she has brought dishonor to them”. “Ah – but how is it revealed?” “Sir gee – she was vomiting since morning when her mother took her to Kalsum Dai – the one who mostly deals with all kind of famine problems and also considered best in delivery cases in the village, she examined her gee and told her mother. Some other women were there too and they listened it and now everyone in the village is talking

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about it sir – people have forgotten last night’s fire gee – Oh poor Muhammad Din – he is such a nice person sir gee – and now all these miseries are bestowed upon him at once – how will the poor fellow survive”. I paused for a moment, and then directed him to ring the bell for recess. When I came home my wife was waiting for me with the same news and latest update was that girl’s brothers have thrashed her to death demanding the name of her lover but she is not uttering a single word; her father is still in trauma, lying without knowing the miseries his family is facing. I listened to my wife and remained silent. I did not know what to say. In the evening, as I approached the central part of the village, every body was talking about Muhammad Din and his daughter. These were the novel incidents of their nature during my tenure. Old pedestal fan was off because of load shading; the village elders were sitting in a circle, muttering their versions of possibilities. In villages boys know the secrets of adulthood before they become adult, teenage boys were also gathered there for eavesdrop the reality behind the myth. I also joined the elders group, sat on a nearby stool made of reeds and ropes, and started to listen to them. I normally stay silent and prefer to listen to others, except the situations when some one asks my opinion or I am in the local jury. Elders were frowning on the girl’s account and were proposing to present this issue to the local jury to decide the girl’s fate when Muhammad Din’s wife appeared. She was crying and asking for help to save her daughter from her sons as they were going to burry her alive. Elders sitting there directed few men to go with her and bring all of them; now it was decided by the course of events to discuss the issue in presence of local jury. When the group was gone, baba Ali Ahmed, the eldest one, stood and started to nominate the jury while ensuring that no one of Muhammad Din’s bradari (brotherhood) is among the adjudicators, as it was the custom to appoint the jury members at run time. Along me four people were recommended by Ali Ahmed, which were approved by others present there. Night was descended and electric power was resumed but pedestal fan was yet off. I was sweating and wishing to dislodge myself from the jury which seemed impossible. A bulb on the main door of the mosque was glistening and its light was approaching the circle under banyan tree after getting mixed with the moonlight. Birds on the tree were perhaps in sleep, sky was clear and stars were shining. There was an unspoken mourn in the air. My heart beat was fastened and my cloths were wetting with sweat, there was fear in me of making a wrong decision in hurry. I wished to postpone the hearing till tomorrow but no one seemed in this mood. Air full of frustration, anger and sorrow was flowing. Chairs were arranged in front of mosque’s entrance and jury members were said to take their seats. Molvi Nizam, Malik Kareem, Choudry Aslam, Baba Kamal – the old grocer and me were the jury members, most of us were illiterate, whose whole religious knowledge was dependent on Molvi Nizam. We all stepped towards the chairs and took our seats silently; a circle was formed around us.

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The sent delegation arrived after ten minutes by escorting the girl and leaving her brothers at home; her forehead was bleeding, face with slur signs and red eyes was revealing the cruelty of her brothers, a shawl has covered her half head and belly, she was bare foot and I noticed mud mixed with blood on her toes. She was brought to the left side of us and was not offered any seat; her mother was also standing with her still weeping. Girl’s face was dry with no signs of pain she was passing through. Proceedings started by Molvi Nizam’s address to the gathering by declaring the girl of committing the biggest sin on earth and bringing dishonor to her the family, so as per the verdicts written in sacred apostles she has to be stoned; which I hijacked by asking “Molvi sab, is not stone penalty for the married ones and unmarried couple has to be flogged and more over she is pregnant, therefore, punishment is to be carried out once she will be free after giving birth?” Molvi Nizam shifted his sitting postures restlessly and looked at me as a pray. I just had challenged his authority and he was speechless. He put the beads he was counting in his shirt’s side pocket and asked “then what do you suggest head master sahib”, there was a bitterness in his tone and this was the first time someone called me as a head master, I waited for a minute and looked at the other members. “I think it would be better to ask other jury member’s opinion in this regard?” I proposed. “Sure – so what is your opinion Choudry Aslam?” Molvi Nizam asked a farmer sitting next to him by placing his left hand on his shoulder. Choudry Aslam is farmer in his mid fifties; he removed his turban of white calico from head and put it in his lap. “I think first we should talk to the girl to ask about her yaar and both should be punished, not only the girl.” Others nodded their heads in agreement and Molvi Nizam who had self assumed himself as a public prosecutor too turned to the girl and asked her in a hard tone. “O you the shame on earth and a symbol of dishonor not only for your family but for the whole village, tell us whose baby are you carrying?” She kept quiet, and did not utter a single word, her mother jolted her from shoulders, slapped at her back to name the son of bitch who has cultivated her, but the girl was standing in a trauma. Every jury member one by one asked her but all efforts went in vain. “Boy is not important, may be one day we came to know who was the culprit, right now problem is what punishment should we award her to prevent same incidents in future” Baba Kamal, scratching his white bear presented his expert opinion.

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“Will you not ask about the farmer while harvesting a wheat crop?” I asked him impatiently. There was no response. Silence was to swallow everything and those were, perhaps, her mother’s screams that saved us. A light wind was started to blow and a little noise of banyan tree leafs was emerging. “I propose to lock her in the room, no one should be allowed to meet her, and bring her back to the jury after her delivery – and then we will decide about her fate”, Malik Kareem said trying to conclude the meeting. He looked at other members for their approval. I was the first one to vote in favor, but before any other response Molvi Nizam cleared his throat and asked impatiently “But where is the punishment, are not we abandoning God’s mercies by giving protection to those who violated His rules?” “Then what is your opinion Molvi Saab? – divine punishment can be carried out only after delivery” I asked. ‘Ummmmmmh” he groaned “Then I think we should go with Malik sab’s decision and I want a little addition by not giving her any facility during the delivery – she has to bear the pains and hardships during the birth – no assistance is to be provided – this is the token of punishment. May God save us from evil and lead us to make correct decisions” I was shocked while others just nodded their heads in approval. Mother’s screams dried out. On behalf of jury Molvi Nizam again uttered the verdict and every jury member raised his hand as a gesture of approval except me. This was not something I was looking for, I was trying to save the girl from flogging but the decision made was worse then flogging. Molvi Nizam, the self appointed prosecutor announced that majority goes with the verdict so it is final and directed the mother to take the girl home and lock her. We were half raised from our chairs when her mother came forwarded and requested that some one from jury take the girl with him as her sons might kill her for their honor. Molvi Nizam lives with his wife in a room within the mosque but he refused to take the evil to God’s house, Choudry Aslam has four young daughter so he can’t give them a bad impression by taking her with him, Malik Karem’s family was not in the village so he refused to commit, Baba Kamal lives with his son and daughter in law. Once all said their excuses, only I was left to take the girl with me which they approved at once. People were eavesdropping with each other while returning to their homes. I brought the girl to my home, told my wife the whole account and she directed her to sleep in the room with her whereas I laid a charpoy in courtyard and started my efforts to sleep.

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It was about two in the morning, when I heard a mild knock at the door, first I considered it my unconsciousness but after some time it was repeated. I stood and headed towards the door. “Who is there?” I asked while opening the door – there was no response. As I opened the door, a man, in his late twenties fell on my foot. It was dark and moonlight was dimed, street at these odd hours was fully deserted. Stranger was weeping and begging my forgiveness. I still had not recognized him; I grabbed him from the shoulders and raised him. He was Kareem, a tea shop owner in village who attracts the customers by playing the Indian movies on color TV and VCR; his often visits to the city were much popular and lives two houses away from the girl’s house. “Oh – what has happened Kareem? Why are you weeping? What have you done for which you are asking my pardon?” I brought him close to my charpoy and directed him to sit, brought a glass of water and offered him – meanwhile my wife was awaked up and came to the room’s door to see what’s going on. “I am the culprit sir, I am the one whose baby she is carrying in her womb.” “ahh” there was a sigh of relief in me. “Why did you not show up in front of jury? And why did you come here?” I asked him furiously. “I have no moral courage master gee – please forgive me” “Why are you asking for my pardon – you should go to her family and ask for their pardon?” “They will kill me – they will kill both of us - I m frightened” “Now what you want from me – why are you here at these odd hours?” “I want to take the girl with me” he wiped tears rolling down his cheeks with sleeves. “What? Are you in your senses?” I shouted at him “Gee master gee – I am, I have made all the arrangements master gee, I will take her on bicycle to next village and from there we will get the first van to Okara and then from

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there to somewhere else. I have made all the arrangement masters gee – Please let her go with me” now his tone was firm. “But I can’t let you to take the girl with you and by the way where will you both go?” “I have arranged everything; I have some money with me. Please master gee, they will kill her – haven’t you listened their verdict tonight?” I looked at him, he was wiping his tears with left hand’s sleeve, and his disturbed hairs were just like a reverse web on his head. At times we have to make some quick decisions without fully knowing their consequences, considering only the upfront advantages, and this was what I did – just looked at the present benefit to save the girl - I said my wife to bring the girl and asked her either she want to go with the her lover or not and this was the first time she nodded in response. I kept myself quite for a moment and then let him to take her. (III) Now they are gone, sun is near to set, soon Molvi Nizam’s voice will roam for the divine call and I am sitting on my charpoy thinking what has just happened and what will be the consequences but I am not very much worried about the penalty . What will I say to girl’s family, to other jury members, to villagers; I have not decided yet. Perhaps I will tell them truth, or lie or partial truth partial lie, I am neither sure about it nor want to think about it right now. But did not I told you earlier, I am not an honest person and this was the first time in my life to practice dishonesty, which I availed and every dishonest person should be punished so I am ready.

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