The Gift

He awoke with a start. Being thrown back to reality gave him a viceral jolt . His bleary eyes focused on a beardless face. It was Gullu, shaking him by the shoulder.

“Imam Saab wake up, you have to conduct the funeral”. The Youth whined in a nasal voice. Haqq Nawaz shook his head in dismay. The dark abyss of a dreamless sleep was preferable to the bright jagged edges of wakefulness.

Gullu stood back to let him sit up. The boy’s eyes wandered over the inside of the small hut. Sliding over the wreckage of Haqq Nawaz’s life. The quiet calm of domesticity had been replaced with a desolation of abandon. There was a pile of wrinkled clothes in one corner. Steel plates were piled high on a solitary wooden shelf. They contained remnants of meals dontaed from all over the village. A miasma of flies was buzzing around various nooks and cranies.

Haqq Nawaz tried to ignore the consternation radiating from the boy. The Child’s reaction would be a mirror of what the villagers thought of the Imam. Do they still pity him? Or had he been relegated to an annoyance like the local madman? Afterall, it had been three weeks since his wife ran off with the Chaudry’s son. The memory triggered a sinister ache in the pit of his stomach. Threatning to swallow his entire being. The blackness felt inviting. Promising a slumber devoid of sorrow.

He went behind the hut to wash in the well. How easy it would be to let himself fall. He fantasized about diving in it, head-first. If only suicide weren’t a mortal sin. Shaking his head, he began to wash. Hoping that the ritual of ablution would purify his soul along with his body. Gullu trailed behind him. The boy had more to say but was waiting to be prodded.

“Is there someone already at the graveyard?”. Haqq Nawaz asked splashing his face with tepid water.

“Just Chaudry Saab and Lakkhu”. Gullu’s reply sent a shiver down his spine despite the afternoon warmth. Haqq Nawaz wiped his face and allowed himself to be lead towards the graveyard.

The graveyard was situated away from the fields. Dirt Mounds of varying sizes were scattered around a plot of land. None of the graves had any markings. Those who came to mourn knew where their loved ones were buried. Haqq Nawaz spotted Lakkhu first.

The tall man had his rifle slung over a shoulder. His master was sitting in a metal chair with wheels attached to it. Much like the tyres on the cycle the postman rode in on. The chair with wheels was a gift from the Chaudry’s son. The boy had went to study in the city. Bringing back novel ideas like wheeled chairs for cripples. And running away with other men’s wives.

Gullu announced their arrival with a greeting. The Chaudry looked away to hear them coming. Cataracts had made him completely blind. If he turned away from you, it meant you had his attention.

“Oye Haqq Nawaza! you’ve finally arrived?”. It was an accusation more than a declaration. “I was about to let Lakkhu lead the prayer, do you like making the dead wait on you?”. The Chaudry’s thin high voice went on.

He had always been terse with Haqq Nawaz. Even the news of his son’s elopment failed to ellicit sympathy from the old man. He made an off-handed remark that his son was experiencing a folly of youth and would be back after having a bit of fun. Whether Haqq Nawaz’s wife would return with him, was open to conjecture.

Haqq Nawaz bowed and apologized. He could feel Lakkhu’s eyes boring in to his skull. Beside a freshly dug grave, he could see the dessicated body of the deceased. It was covered by a tattered old bedsheet. The limbs jutting out had already started to decay. Greying skin showed claw marks where puss had started to gather.

The Farmer’s death had not been a surprise. Only days earlier he had lost his only daughter. The girl’s mother had succumbed to the labours of childbirth. She used to hang about her father the whole day. Neighbouring village women had taken it upon themselves to mother her from time to time. But she had remained untamed, roaming the fields while her father worked. A few days ago she was attacked by a rabid dog. By the time her screams reached her father. The Dog had mauled the girl savagely.

The village healer had been quick to clean and bandage the wounds. But the dog’s madness had seeped in to her flesh. She had ran a fever for a few days before her skin turned grey. She stopped talking and would growl and bite like an animal.

The villagers thought she was possessed and brought her to Haqq Nawaz. But he was untrained in the art of exorcism. The girl continued to become rabid with each passing day and even bit her father a few times. The farmer, at a loss for finding a cure. Had locked her in their hut. Sleeping outside while she clawed at the door. Eventually, the poor creature perished from exhaustion.

Haqq Nawaz glanced at her tiny grave as he prepared to offer the last rites of her father. He had seen the farmer a few days before. Sitting outside his hut, looking at emptiness. After his daughter’s death, he refused to enter his home. He wandered the fields sometimes, looking for the dog that had bitten her.

But mostly he would sit and stare. He had growled when Haqq Nawaz had tried to approach him. He was sure the farmer would plunge towards him if he had ventured closer. Some of the villagers thought he was still haunted by the dead girl’s ghost.

They faced the corpse to offer the funeral prayer. Haqq Nawaz stood at the front. His throat moved as he silently mouthed the words of prayer. His mind wondered about his own funeral. Seeing his own body lying next to the farmer. The delirium made him see the farmer’s body twitching. At first he thought it was a trick of the wind but the day was humid.

Before the prayer could draw to a close. The farmer had lumbered to his feet, leaving the shroud crumpled on the ground. His eyes were devoid of life and light as they locked with Haqq Nawaz.

The body was a tapestry of ruin displaying the last vestiges of his daughter. The only memory she left her father were bites and claw marks. The slack jaw moved as a low growl emanated. The other men glared in horror at the abomination.

But Haqq Nawaz saw the ecstasy of sorrow in the farmer’s face. This was a man who had surrendered completely to his suffering. Along with his wits, the madness had taken away the pain. When the corpse lurched forward, the others recoiled.

But Haqq Nawaz stepped forwared with open arms. Like a soldier receiving a brother-in-arms, he embraced the recently dead man. He let the tears run as the farmer’s teeth plunged in his neck.

There were sounds of vague shouting but Haqq Nawaz was oblivious to it all. Lakkhu stepped forward to disentangle the two men. Neither Haq Nawaz’s arms nor the farmer’s teeth would let go. Finally Lakkhu had to shoot the farmer in the head.

The blast of the rifle left Haqq Nawaz cowering on the ground. Covering his ears and screaming from the ringing now echoing inside his skull.

The farmer’s skull resembled a pomegranate smashed by a rock. Brain matter and viscera spattered on the graves behind him. Gullu helped Haqq Nawaz to his feet. His shirt had already soaked through with the blood gushing from his neck. Upon the Chaudry’s orders, Gullu lead Haqq Nawaz towards the village. The healer was called immediately.

Haqq Nawaz’s throat was wound tightly in cotton gauze. He could only speak in grunts. This prevented him from leading most of the prayers. But his face did not betray any remnants of sadness. He seemed to all a picture of contentment. Despite a burning fever, he continued to visit the mosque. He could feel his thoughts becoming hazy as the days passed. People often remarked how sallow his skin had become. When he answered them with a smile, they’d often turn away in disgust.

The last prayer Haqq Nawaz led was in the afternoon. His mind was almost completely gone. All the pain and humiliation replaced with a cannibalistic numbness. His eyes were hollow and he couldn’t seem to stop himself from drooling. His last thought was one of gratitude, towards the farmer who had passed on the gift of oblivion.

Haqq Nawaz realised that he couldn’t leave this world a selfish man. A gift as dear as this must be passed on to someone else, to another suffering soul. As he turned away to face the congregation of praying villagers. He saw the Chaudry, being led out of the mosque by Lakkhu. Haqq Nawaz could see the lines of worry etched in the ancient face. He would liberate the old man, he would pass on the gift.