Redemption

I woke to the sound of sirens. And dogs barking. Well that last part wasn’t entirely new. But the first part alarmed me. I jerked out of my bed and snatched a sweater off the back of the broken chair nearby and swung it over my shoulder.

I exit the shack and walk into the streets walking right pass the police with the mini-van. As I pass by from the hushed whispers I gather as much that they are here to issue another warning to the hippies amongst whom I have lived.

As long as I can remember I have lived here, all my memories are of this mosquito-infested dirt hole. I don’t see how they are going to get this whole horde of people to leave. I don’t see that happening in the near future. In fact I don’t see that happening ever.

I walk into the near-by park and occupy my favourite bench. I pull out my cigarette, a cheap brand that causes much coughing and little pleasure, but at times like these that is all that I can afford. It’ll have to do, I guess. Not like I really have a choice.

Jamshed arrives shortly. We greet each other with a non-committal grunt, the usual. He sits across me. As he sits he begins to pick on the tables’ splintered edges—a habit of his. Jamshed is always on edge. He is either picking on anything within picking-distance, or scratching his forehead, or tugging at his ear lobe. He just can’t sit still. But over the years I have grown used to these habits of his as he has grown used to mine.

He puts out his hand, mechanically I reach into my pocket for the money we….acquired yesterday. I put his share into his rough palm. Jamshed begins to count it, satisfied, he turns to me again and asks if I have had breakfast. Have I ever? I answer back. Smiling, he gets up signaling for me to follow him. I do as he tells me.

We walk over to the local dhaba. Jamshed orders a five rupee tea for me—the regular. I look around, not really interested in my surroundings. It hasn’t changed much, it’s all very stagnant, and I muse to myself, so consistent, withstanding the test of time. Nothing seems to have changed over the past few years. That worn out broom is still in the far-east corner. Though by the looks it I believe it would dirty whatever it touches instead of cleaning it. Slightly towards the right is the chip-board cup-board that houses all the chinaware, mainly consisting of cheap, chipped plastic cups or a few ancient, yellowed, patterned halla pottery pieces.

Towards my left is what can be called a counter, it’s just a makeshift desk’s severed top resting on the support of a few boards and bricks. Necessity is the mother of invention, they say, how true, how true. I’m jolted out of my thoughts when something heavy lands with a loud thud on my chair. I look up to see Manna, the head gangster, or don of our area. But we call him Guru. As I look at him he flashes him tobacco and tea stained teeth at me and asks how I have been in his heavy Siraiki accent. I just shrug in response. Suddenly ticked at my response, or the lack or one his mercurial temper shifts and he frowns at me. He thumps my back twice and asks if I did what I had been told. I say I did, as always. The Mercury shifts again and he smiles in all his pale-toothed glory and thumps my back again. “Well done puttar, well done,” he congratulates me, “now puttar where is my share?”

Mechanically I reach into my pocket for the 210 Rs. which was Manna’s share. I drop it into his extended chubby hand with dirt collected under the fingernails. He grins again, wide as ever, proudly showcasing his set of shiny emeralds.
“You’ll live.” He says, thumping my back again. “, for now,” He adds.

I breathe a sigh of relief that I’ll live another day. If you can call this living, that is.