Rahim Chacha

I don’t remember Abba, my father. Rahim Chacha was always my hero, my idol. But that was before the fire. The fire that changed everything. 

 

My earliest memory of Rahim Chacha is from when I was three or four years old. Sitting on his lap, I remember putting my tiny hands like a puppy’s paws against his large face, tracing the crinkled corners of his eyes and the texture of his thick beard. 

 

“Abdul beta, bas bas! What are you looking for in my beard? Toffees?” He burst out in his characteristic booming laughter.

 

I put my ear against his body in awe to hear the deep rumbles of his laugh coming up from his belly. His guffaws always made me feel happy and giddy. 

 

My awe for Rahim Chacha grew as I grew older. Was it because the many people who came to meet him in the courtyard of his rambling old home would bend and say salaam to him? Or that Ammi always trusted his advice? My own Abba died when I was one, so Rahim Chacha – Abba’s cousin - who lived on our street, was my father figure. 

 

Most afternoons, I went straight from school to Rahim Chacha’s house, since Ammi worked till late evening in her small tailoring shop. Farida Chachi always kept aside some lunch for me. Sweet, simple Farida Chachi. People often called her ‘bholi’, for she won’t look anyone in the eye, and would robotically go about her work, lost in her own world. She hardly spoke, but I knew she was fond of me. She would often give me a shy smile, and always tried to make me eat an extra roti for lunch. 

 

I would eat lunch sitting cross-legged on the floor near the kitchen and watch Rahim Chacha sitting on his charpayi in the large courtyard. He had his meals there, said his daily prayers there, met his many visitors there. Every once in a while, his infectious laughter would echo in the far corners of the house. He would sometimes call me to sit with him and talk to me about school and my future. I remember sitting next to him, swinging my feet that didn’t quite touch the ground, and squirming against the charpayi’s prickly jute ropes poking into my bum.  

 

“Abdul beta,” he once said with an avuncular hand on my bony shoulder, “with our limited education, your Abba and I did the best we could. But you must study hard and become a big man. Remember to take care of me when you’re a big man.” He then laughed loudly and I laughed with him, unable to imagine my big, bear-like Rahim Chacha ever needing someone to care for him. The musky smell of his ittar, helping him move his charpayi to chase the winter sun, playing ludo with him–so many memories from that courtyard are an indelible part of my childhood, with Rahim Chacha at the centre of it all. 

 

The predictable happy days of my childhood were rudely disrupted one afternoon by a loud jarring knock on Rahim Chacha’s door. I was around ten years old. After eating lunch, I was washing my hands at the hand pump in the corner of the courtyard. Rahim Chacha was gently snoring, his large stomach rising and falling with each snore. The urgent and insistent knocking sound woke him with a start. His shop tenants and friends never knocked. They knew they just had to push the door open to enter. 

 

The guests this time were uninvited and unwanted. I ran to open the door so the persistent, relentless knocking would stop. It was three policemen. The one in the centre, wearing the smart looking hat, asked in a loud, brusque voice, “Rahim Mirza?”

 

Rahim Chacha slowly stood up–he was a big man, six feet tall and burly. “Yes, inspector sahib. How can I help you?” 

 

“You are the owner of Nutan market?”

 

Rahim Chacha nodded. Nutan market, a small crowded market with thirty odd shops was Rahim Chacha’s source of income. Farida Chachi had received a plot of land in her dowry and Rahim Chacha had the foresight to build three rows of shops on it. It eventually became a flourishing market.

 

“You’re under arrest. There are criminal charges against you for hiding explosives in your market.” The inspector signalled the constables towards Rahim Chacha.

 

“Hiding explosives? I’m sure there’s a mistake. I’m just an ordinary businessman who rents out shops. Some of my shopkeeper tenants sell Diwali firecrackers, but explosives?" Rahim Chacha’s voice grew louder. “I have nothing to do with this.” 

 

The inspector’s moustached face remained unmoving like stone. “I have an arrest warrant for you, along with Rahul Munshi, one of your shop tenants.” 

 

The three policemen handcuffed Rahim Chacha and started to lead him towards the door. Farida Chachi clutched his sleeve tight, not letting go. Even she sensed something was wrong. 

 

I didn’t understand much of what the stern policeman said, but I knew they wanted to lock Rahim Chacha in jail. I threw the entire force of my ten-year-old body between the inspector and Rahim Chacha. “You can’t take him. He hasn’t done anything wrong. Leave him, go away!”

 

Rahim Chacha gently removed my arms from his body and disentangled Farida Chachi’s hand from his sleeve. He nudged me towards Farida Chachi and asked me to take care of her. In a calm voice, he said to both of us, “don’t worry, I’ll be back very soon.”

 

But Rahim Chacha was wrong for once. The police put him in prison, and the court refused to let him out on bail. 

 

A few days after his arrest, I went with Farida Chachi and Ammi to meet Rahim Chacha in prison. He looked like a shadow of himself, with dark circles under his eyes, his hair and beard unkempt and wearing ugly, ill-fitting prison clothes.

 

“Don’t worry, I’ll get out soon. Rahul Munshi is lying. My only fault is that I rented out a shop to him. The scoundrel was hiding explosives behind boxes of Diwali firecrackers. But I have faith in Allah and my lawyer. They will see us through.” Rahim Chacha had hired one of the best criminal lawyers in the city to fight his case.

 

With Rahim Chacha in jail, life became bland like plain rice. I still went to his house in the afternoons but sorely missed his presence. It was a lonely courtyard without his booming laugh and his constant stream of visitors.  Every few months, a new legal notice would come to Rahim Chacha’s home. Ammi and Farida Chachi would impatiently wait for me to read the English notice to see if it had any good news, but it would inevitably only announce the next date for hearing the case. 

 

The kids in the neighbourhood started jeering me about Rahim Chacha being a terrorist, but I ferociously fought them every time - with fists, scratches and foul language. With time, they stopped saying anything to my face, though I would hear whispers behind my back. On trips to the vegetable market with Ammi, people looked away, for fear that they would have to acknowledge us openly.

 

Four years and thirty two days after he was arrested, Rahim Chacha’s faith in Allah and his lawyer came through. The court announced a long prison term for Rahul Munshi, for hiding and selling explosives to local gangs, but thankfully acquitted Rahim Chacha as they could find no proof against him. 

 

Farida Chachi, Ammi and I went to the prison to bring him home. We waited impatiently with a garland of fragrant, orange marigold and a box of his favourite mithai. We saw a bearded man walking towards us wearing an oversized pathani suit. It took me a second to realize it was indeed Rahim Chacha. He had lost a lot of weight, and it was strange seeing him in his regular clothes again. 

 

Ammi wiped a tear. “I had stitched it for him to wear on Eid. I didn’t know it would be so many years before he would be able to wear it.” 

 

I smiled at her. “It is like Eid for us today, na?”

 

 “It surely is. When did my Abdul become so wise?” Ammi laughed. “Though I should have altered it to make it smaller.”

 

I hugged Rahim Chacha tight as soon as he reached us. “Rahim Chacha, salaam walekum.”

 

He thumped my back. “Ah Abdul beta, you’re so much taller! And look at that budding moustache. Fourteen now?”  

 

“Almost fifteen.” I noticed with pleasure that I was now taller than his shoulders.

 

Farida Chachi had become agitated and restless on seeing Rahim Chacha, mumbling nonsense and not able to stand still – we knew she was excited to see him. I held her hand tight and Rahim Chacha stroked her head and shoulder to calm her down.

 

I was looking forward to our afternoons going back to the old routine, as if that would somehow erase the last four years. In some ways, things did go back to normal. After school, I would go to Rahim Chacha’s house and find him sitting in the courtyard on his charpayi. There was again a stream of people visiting, though now Rahim Chacha was not as welcoming. He would sometimes send them away saying he was tired. Sometimes he would snap at them, though he never snapped at Farida Chachi or me. I sorely missed hearing his booming laugh. When alone, I would find him staring unblinking for long minutes at nothing in particular. I kept trying to amuse him and bring him back to his old self, telling him about funny incidents in school, but he would merely smile perfunctorily, pat my shoulder and tell me to do my homework.

 

One such quiet afternoon, two men came to meet Rahim Chacha. They were dressed in smart office clothes, wearing ties and black shoes polished to a shine. I hadn’t seen them before but Rahim Chacha seemed to be expecting them. They sat with him and spoke in low voices for a while. I sat in my corner, with my head bent over my books, trying to overhear but could barely catch a couple of words like ‘rate’ and ‘develop’. The one who looked like a shrewd fox seemed to be doing most of the talking.

 

Rahim Chacha caught me looking at them and called me over. He gave me a hundred rupee note and asked me to get samosas. “Get only taaza samosas. In fact, ask Ramu halwai to make a fresh batch for you.”

 

I got back half an hour later with the taaza, piping hot samosas, whose mouth-watering smell had enticed me all the way. Rahim Chacha and the two men were still engrossed in conversation. I heard Rahim Chacha say, “don’t worry, I’ll make sure it gets cleaned up.” 

 

The three of them looked up when they heard me enter. Surprisingly, the two men left immediately, without eating the crisp hot samosas. I was glad to see them leave as now I could eat the two extra samosas. Later, much later, I wished I had paid more attention to the two men, rather than on the samosas. I wish I had asked Rahim Chacha about them, asked him more about why they came to meet him. Perhaps things would have turned out differently.

 

A few days later, I returned from school to find Ammi sitting with Farida Chachi in the courtyard. Farida Chachi was mumbling and rocking back and forth and Ammi had a worried look. Rahim Chacha was not there. My heart seized for a second and my first thought was that the police had arrested him again. My heart beating fast, I asked Ammi where he was.

 

“There’s a fire in Nutan market. Your Chacha is there with the fire fighters.” 

 

I ran out and caught an auto-rickshaw to the market. I anxiously peered out of the auto as it made its way through the traffic towards Rahim Chacha’s market. About half a kilometre from the market, the roads were barricaded and there was a big traffic jam, with impatient horns blaring. I jumped off from the auto and ran towards the thick plumes of black smoke I could see rising in the distance. The market, or what remained of it, was a sight I will never forget. Angry flames devoured the shops and rose from all over the market, disappearing into dense billowing black smoke. I covered my nose and mouth with a corner of my shirt as I coughed and almost gagged. The stench was worse than rubber tyres burning. 

 

Rahim Chacha stood next to the firefighters who were attempting to douse the beast of the fire. I walked past the fire engines and people who stood like statues, their faces aglow and hypnotized by the flames of the horrendous bonfire. Many of the shopkeepers stood looking helpless, some sobbing at the sight of their livelihood burning to ashes in front of their eyes. As I reached closer to Rahim Chacha, the searing heat and blaze from the fire became almost unbearable, but I forced myself to keep walking till I reached him.

 

I grasped Rahim Chacha’s shoulder to get his attention and he turned to me, covered with black soot, his face bright red and glistening with sweat. 

 

“Abdul, you shouldn’t have come, beta. It’s not safe,” he shouted above the noise of sirens and loud cracking and popping sounds coming from the market.

 

“I was scared for you Chacha,” I shouted back, relieved to see him safe and unharmed.

 

He patted my shoulder, but his eyes remained glued to the market going up in flames. The reflection of the orange flames lit his face, etching the frown lines on his forehead in sharp detail. I desperately wanted to shield him from this second calamity that had struck him so soon after being released from prison. 

 

“Go home Abdul. Farida and your Ammi would be worried. Be there with them.” 

 

I nodded and left him standing there, watching the funeral pyre of his market. 

 

Ammi and I stayed with Farida Chachi that night. After dinner, I switched on the TV, a big attraction for me since we didn’t have one at our house. “Ammi look, they’re showing our fire in the news!” I yelled as I recognized the images of the burning market on TV.

 

The lady reporter spoke in English in a loud, urgent tone. “The fire in Nutan market has been burning all day. There are no reports of injuries as it was the weekly holiday for the market. How did the fire start? How did it spread so quickly? We tried talking to the shopkeepers, and to Mr. Rahim Mirza, the owner of the market, but we have not received any substantial response so far.” 

 

“What is she saying?” Ammi asked.

 

“No one is hurt but they don’t know how it started.”

 

A while later I stretched out on a folding cot in the courtyard. Sleep eluded me as I waited for Rahim Chacha to return home, worried about how this would affect him.

 

A week after the fire, as I was entering Rahim Chacha’s house, I heard voices that I had heard once before. It was those two well-dressed men who had come to meet Rahim Chacha a few days before the fire. Just as I was about to enter, wondering if Rahim Chacha would send me again to buy samosas, I heard his voice and I stopped where I was, the door slightly ajar.

 

“I got the clean-up done, as promised. Now you have to honour your end of the deal,” Rahim Chacha said in a low but firm tone.

 

“Yes, we’re happy with the way it went, so efficiently and with zero casualties. This is very helpful for us. Now we can start the demolition and construction as soon as the transaction is completed. We will transfer half the money to an account in your name outside India. But let’s lie low for a while, and reconnect in a couple of months. We can announce the transaction then,” one of the men said. 

 

What clean-up were they talking about? What transaction? What did the words demolition and casualties mean? I remembered seeing the word CASUALTY in large, red bold letters in the city hospital–it was where all the accident and emergency cases were taken. Injured people. People burnt in a fire. A cold dread suffused me from head to foot and I shivered despite the afternoon heat. How could that be? How could Rahim Chacha burn down his own market, his family’s source of income? For what?

 

I got away from the door and walked down the street in a daze, replaying the words in my mind again and again. Slowly, the possibility started taking shape, and the more I thought about it, the more I realized it was true. Rahim Chacha had taken money from these bastards to burn down his own market. The ground below my feet felt unsteady, as if I was falling into a deep, dark bottomless well. I felt betrayed, as if Rahim Chacha had personally lied to me. Did I even know the man who I had revered more than anyone in the world? Was he a monster?

 

I went back to my own house, shut the door and collapsed on the floor crying. I suddenly felt like a little child abandoned in a crowded place with no idea how to get back home. For the first time in years, I desperately wanted my Abba. 

 

After that day, I never went back to Rahim Chacha’s house. I didn’t want to meet him. I was sure he would guess I knew what he had done. I couldn’t bear to listen to his explanations and lies. I was afraid he would somehow convince me that he had not done it. But I was an idealistic teenager, and Rahim Chacha had been my ideal. Not anymore. I couldn’t bring myself to condone what he had done. Ammi kept asking me why I didn’t want to go to his house, but I never told her. I was ashamed and embarrassed, as if I was the one who had set the market on fire. I just couldn’t confide in Ammi about my suspicions. 

 

One day Ammi thrust a small steel tiffin box in my hand. “Go give this to Farida Chachi. I made seviyan this morning. You know she loves it.”

 

I shoved it back at her. “Ammi, for the thousandth time, I don’t want to go there.”

 

“Just go give it and come back. Don’t go inside.”

 

“If you keep pushing me like this, I’ll run away. I’ll catch a train to Delhi or Mumbai and won’t come back.”

 

She slapped me hard on my cheek. I was stunned. She had never slapped me before. 

 

“Don’t you dare even think of running away. You’re all I have in this world, and I want you to have a good future. I won’t tolerate any foolish talk like this.” Her voice trembled as she clutched my shoulders. “I don’t know what has happened with you and your Chacha, but if it’s so important to you, I won’t push you to go there.”

 

I hugged her tight. My hardworking, loving Ammi. “Sorry Ammi. I didn’t mean it. Please don’t ask me why, but don’t tell me to go there again.”

 

Life settled in a new rhythm from then on. I took up a part-time job after school, making house deliveries of things like rice, sugar, bread, soap, hair oil for a local kiraana store. I learnt how to make deliveries with a namaste and an earnest face so I would get a small tip from the housewives. Slowly, I learnt how to live my life without Rahim Chacha, though Ammi kept in touch with them. I learnt to avoid walking past his house and take the long route home. I learnt to spend long, lonely afternoons at home. I learnt to ignore the aching hurt of disillusionment I hid somewhere deep inside.

 

I was convinced Rahim Chacha had guessed the reason I didn’t want to see him anymore. For if he hadn’t, wouldn’t he have made an effort to talk to me, to ask what was bothering me? Or maybe, I thought, I just didn’t matter enough–I was just this bothersome nephew, the poor son of his dead cousin, who had needed a bit of kindness once.

 

Time passed. I got a good result in my high school exam and was able to secure admission with scholarship at the state engineering college. It was in another city. I didn’t want to leave Ammi behind, but knew I had to. 

 

One night, in my third year at college, I got a phone call at the college hostel from Ammi. She was crying as she told me that Rahim Chacha was admitted in a hospital for pneumonia and the doctor had said that he might not survive. After the call, I sat there, numb. Memories that I had long suppressed came rushing back. The comforting feel of Rahim Chacha’s enveloping hug. The thrill I got as a child whenever I was able to make him laugh. Even his mild scolding when I didn’t get good marks in my exams. I tried to ignore the flood of rising memories and feelings, but I couldn’t stay away any longer. I ran to my room, threw a few clothes in my bag and rushed to the train station to catch whichever train I could get on. I had to talk to him once.

 

Rahim Chacha looked like a pale ghost in the white hospital gown, shrunken and shrivelled. His beard was now fully white and he had lost most of the hair on his head. His eyes were closed and there was a sharp wheezing sound when he breathed, as if his lungs were fighting to keep him alive. The cardiac monitor beeped reassuringly in the silence. Farida Chachi sat on a chair next to him, asleep. 

 

I stood at the door of the hospital room, staring at him for I don’t know how long. I was seeing him after six years. There was a conflicting storm of emotions inside me. Was this the Rahim Chacha of my childhood, the one I had looked up to? Or was it a scheming businessman, a criminal who had risked lives and committed arson to make money? Or was he both? I had run away from him all those years back, but I couldn’t keep running away.  He looked much weaker and older, his face shrunken and lined with wrinkles. I wanted desperately to hear him laugh. No, I wanted my old Rahim Chacha back. The Rahim Chacha from before the fire, from before the prison. As if sensing my presence, he opened his eyes and a smile lit up his face as he saw me.

 

I sat down next to him and held his hand in mine. I couldn’t find the words to talk to him though in my mind the questions jostled around, clamouring to burst out.

 

“I’ve been waiting for you for a long time, Abdul beta,” he said in a frail voice.

 

I wanted to say I had missed him. I wanted to say there was an emptiness in my life that only his laughter could fill. But I asked him what I wanted to ask him all these years. “Why Chacha? You burned down your own market? For money?”

 

He nodded and spoke slowly, his words punctuated with coughing. “The four years in jail shook me up. Shook my faith in people. Many shop tenants, who I had thought to be friends, turned on me and stopped paying rent to Farida. They thought I was in for much longer, so why bother paying rent to a simpleton. I felt helpless and angry, betrayed by them.”

 

“You could’ve just cut short their lease and got new tenants.”

 

“I was worried about Farida, about what would happen to her if I died. A big chunk of my savings had already gone to the lawyer fighting my case. And the thought of jail kept haunting me. How I had ended up there through the illegal activities of one of the tenants. I hated the market and my tenants for what they had done to me. They had betrayed me once and could do it again. I wanted to get rid of the market.” He broke into a cough. When he was quiet, I could hear the wheezing of his breath. 

 

He paused to sip some water. It was a big effort for him to talk so much. “So, when those builders wanted to buy the market, I agreed. I thought, achcha hai, I will never have to see the wretched market or my tenants again. And then they said they would double the money if I could get the market cleaned up–get the shopkeepers to leave. I had so much resentment in me that I agreed. But I made sure not a single person was hurt. That was important.” Rahim Chacha turned his face away.

 

I sat with tears running down my face. I didn’t know who or what I was crying for–myself? Rahim Chacha? Those shopkeepers and their families? Or was it for the hero-like image of Rahim Chacha I had maintained in my mind during my childhood? 

 

He took hold of my hand in a trembling grip. His hand was cold, and I longed to rub it in mine to warm it up. I resisted the urge but didn’t pull my hand away.

 

“When you stopped talking to me, you made me think a lot about what I had done. At first, for many days, I was convinced I had done the right thing. And then slowly, your silence showed me what I had been blind to. How wrong it was to deprive so many families of their livelihoods. I decided to use the money to help the families. I helped them buy shops in other areas, paid for their children’s education, helped in whichever way I could – even that haraami Rahul Munshi’s family. But it wasn’t enough, for I had lost you.” Tears slid down the corners of his eyes.

 

I had heard enough. I kneeled on the floor next to his bed, and sobbed into his hand. His words engulfed me like waves, sweeping away the grudge and resentment I had held for him for so many years. He was still my hero, and always would be.