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.