Chapter 10

Street No. 3 never made any sense to me, and nor did the ones attached to it. I don't know if it was the Hindu architecture or something else. Some of the streets were very cramped and were only 5 feet wide. Others were a bit wider than that. There was no theme to them. It was as if wherever a house was built, the passage put itself around it. These streets were cramped with houses old and new. They were built with red bricks and painted yellow, green, blue, pink, and whatever color you could think of. They all had an ornate wooden door and windows. Most of these windows were protected by bars of steel. Some houses were really old and there residents could not afford to renovate them. Those who had the money demolished the old ones and made new. The new houses had their fronts covered with marble.

Our house was one of those marble faced ones.

Back in the day, they did not think of underground sewers. In fact, most of the houses didn't have a toilet. Many old houses had a place designated as the toilet on the roof--like the one on Shareef family's house. Every morning, the residents of that three storied building came one by one to use that toilet on the roof top. Then you needed someone to take care of that mess. For that, there was Fatima Choori.

Fatima was a nimble old lady. She was a janitor--a choori. Her husband was a choora too. She would go to the roof of every such house every day, with her basket on her head, and a spade in her hands. She would collect people's dirt and dispose it. She was also the garbage collector from the houses that did have the toilets. She got her salary from the city council. But she also used to get a stipend from the residents of the houses she served.

Since Street No. 3 did not have an underground sewer, it had a duct on each side. We called them Naalis. These naalis carried the wastage water from each house to a bigger duct somewhere out there, which in turn carried it to the big Nala Lai. Usualy these naalis would flow fine. Sometimes, they would get stuck and overflow. Fatima Choori always helped us out.

Sometimes the boys would play cricket in the street. Their balls would fall into a naali each time. Somebody would pick it up with their hand and jerk the water off. Then they would keep playing with the same ball. Ashfaaq Agha hated that. Whenever he saw boys playing in the street, he would come out of his house and chide them.

These streets were always busy. With the first call for the prayer at dawn, they would start getting visitors. The first one would be a beggar. He would sing his song of tragedy every day. He would knock on each door and ask for something. Some gave him money, some gave him food, and some gave him nothing.

Right after the beggar, you would see the milkman. Then you'd hear the cry of the vegetable cart guy. Then there would be the scrap buyer. Then there would be the Papar seller. These were the regulars. You'd also see and hear the ones that came once in a while. The knive sharpner, the corn seller, the sugar-candy guy, the snake charmer, the balloon seller, the chaat maker, pathans with rugs and Qurans, and the shot gun and balloons guy were among those.

Chapter 9

"Yaar, take the subway, and go to Munhawtun." Uncle Jehanzeb said to me.

I knew there was something he wasn't pronouncing right. Maybe he was trying to say Manhattan. The way he said it reminded me of some place in inner city Lahore. I had heard of Bhati, Lohari, and Mazang. Maybe this is what we had called Manhattan, if it was in Lahore--Munhawtun.

I was at Uncle Jehanzeb's store. He didn't own it. He only worked there. It was a long and narrow store. As soon as you entered the store, there was the cashier's desk on the left hand side. Uncle Jehanzeb stood behind the desk with cartons of cigarettes on his back. On the right hand side, there was a big rack full of magazines with naked women on their covers. The coolers were further down with beverages and beer.

"But I am afraid of going there. I've heard bad stories about it. I heard there are black men there that mug you and shoot you." I replied.

"Oye no yaar, I tell you where to go. Its not that bad." He insisted.

Before he could convince me more, a white couple walked in.

"Good morning! How you doing?" Uncle Jehanzeb became alive.

"Oh great. How are ya?" replied the man.

Each of them bought a pack of cigarettes of their liking and they both paid separately. Then they left.

"See, they were husband and wife. They come here everyday. They buy cigarettes and they both pay separately. This is how life is here. Did you see?"

I didn't really want to go to Manhattan. I had heard too many bad things about it. I had heard that people walk there with needles of their AIDS infected blood. They threaten to sting you and rob you of your money.

I stepped out of the store and roamed around. I could see a city with very tall buildings. Maybe that was Manhattan. It looked beautiful. I had slept well the night before. The jet lag had already gone. Uncle Jehanzeb had made me good food. He had also called his travel agent friend to buy a ticket for me. I was going to Texas.

Chapter 8

The first house on the other side of the street was occupied by two urdu-speaking brothers and their families. It was a two-story house and probably as old as the Shah house, or maybe a little newer. Each brother had his floor. Qayyum, who lived on the top floor had a lot of children. People of the street used to call him child specialist. He was not a doctor, though. He was a drug-addict. His wife was a portly patient woman. I never saw her complaining. She often came to our house looking for some help. She either looked for some flour for that night's dinner, or some cash. She was like many other women of this community. They never asked for a better life.

Qayyum's elder brother was not like him. His name was Jameel. He worked hard. He had a large family too, but he ran his business. He had a shoe store in Raja Bazaar, and a saop factory in one of the rooms. His children had the indian looks. Sharp features, darker complexions, their way of speaking neat urdu. While the rest of the street diced urdu whenever they spoke it, Jameel and his family always did it justice.

After them, there lived the Lodhi's--the most mysterious of all. Mr. Lodhi had six sons and a daughter. Nobody knew where Mr. Lodhi's eldest son was. They always told people he was in Karachi. I believed in them until I saw his body in our verandah. The Lodhi's were our direct neighbors and they did not have enough room for a funeral. That day when I returned from school, I saw a crowd of people in our house. Naeem Lodhi's body was lying in the center of our verandah. That was the first time I saw him. When someone told me who he was, I thought he had returned from Karachi. That wasn't the case.

Naeem was living with an influential woman in Rawalpindi. She was a member of the provincial assembly and a widow. There was no name for their relationship. On that day, she was there sitting next to his charpai. Her beautiful daughters were there too. Crying for Naeem Bhai.

But that's not all. Mr. Lodhi's house was often frequented by the police. They looked for his second son. People say he had business losses and he owed much money. Mr. Lodhi's other sons did not have such action packed stories.

Then there was Shakoor's house. Everybody called him Shakoora. Punjabis liked to have names ending with vowels. Iqbal would become Bala, Pervaiz would become Peja, and Shakoor became Shakoora. Shakoora was the self-proclaimed bully of the street. He was tall, dark-skinned, heavy, and loud. If he was mad at you, he would convey it to you right away. Nobody wanted to mess with him. He was also the president of the mosque's zakat committee.