Here is the most important thing to know, sir: I tried my best to save him, you understand? My best. We all did. But I suppose it was just his time, and Allah knows best.
It all started two weeks ago when Bookseller moved in. Grocer and Barber from that street to the left, and Milkboy, Tailor, and Widow from this street behind were already sitting at my shop that afternoon, as they do every day. Of course, we were all curious.
This is an old neighborhood, you see, very old. Most of us have been here for generations. Tailor’s family has lived here for fifty years, Printer’s for thirty-seven, and Imam’s family came here even before mine. So when someone new comes in, we notice.
My house, sir, is right there. You can see my boy Fatty’s Vespa parked outside it, the one right near that Exide battery sign, before Barber’s shop where that dog is sitting under that streetlamp. That house has been here since 1923. When my father moved here from India in 1947, he won the keys to it in a government lottery, and when he walked inside, he saw that the previous owners had left all their statues behind. Sir, you know what that means: idols for worship. Imam says my father smashed them all. He says that it was like a spirit had come over my father and he had gone mad, throwing each statue against the wall until they were in pieces.
“Your father was a guardian of this neighborhood and our religion,” Imam says. Of course, I believed him; my father was a good man, some would say even saintly. He had dreams all the time, dreams with messages. I have dreams, too, sir. Imam says that’s the sign of closeness to Allah.
So on the day Bookseller moved in, everyone saw the Suzuki truck pull up in front of Printer’s old shop, and a man and a woman came out. The woman unlocked the door that leads upstairs to the apartments. Grocer was convinced it was a government spy; I can be honest about that, yes? I am an honest man, sir. I have nothing to hide.
See, in August, three government inspectors came to the neighborhood and visited all our shops. They were dressed like you, sir, in suits and ties and, no offense, looking all official and foreign. The suit man who looked like their boss showed us pamphlets and said they were printed right here in this neighborhood, and he asked us questions. All very personal questions, like what our religious beliefs were, whether we had ever attended any protests against the government, and whether we knew what Imam did with our donations. These are things that come up when we sit and talk at my teashop, of course, but this is neighborhood business. So of course, we all said nothing.
They shut Printer’s shop down. I think the suit man just wanted to make an example out of one of us. He said no print shops in the city were authorized to print religious or political materials unless they had government approval. The next morning when we woke up, the shop was empty, and Printer and his family had disappeared. Just like that. Gone.
You must understand, sir, we have no fight with the government, but that was unfair. We are simple people. We are just trying to live good lives in harmony with our neighbors. For all these years, Imam wrote down his Friday sermons, and Printer made pamphlets of them so more people can benefit from his wisdom. How could we think that was a crime?
And now we had this stranger among us. Looking at him—jeans, no beard, the wife’s head uncovered—we knew he was different. People like that do not belong here. The government says it has authority to move people from one district to another. Sure, you run the country. But we should know what your decisions are based on; it’s our lives that change.
Of course, we were concerned. I sent Fatty to fetch Imam, who said he would hurry over right after the Zuhr prayer.
Then the man started unloading boxes from his Suzuki, and at first we couldn’t tell what they were. But then he placed them on the ground like they were too heavy and looked around like he was expecting someone to help him. Fatty wanted to help, and I would have, of course, but I had just made a fresh round of tea and prepared batter for jalebis that needed to be fried instantly.
When Imam came, I sat him down right here under the awning, where he could see the car clearly. I poured him some tea and brought him a plate of fresh sweets. Then we all sat.
Tailor said he didn’t see why we needed a bookshop. “Our kids get enough books in school,” he said.
Widow said she hoped he wasn’t selling magazines.
“Showing young girls how to put on makeup and disobey their parents,” she said. “I still have to find mine a husband.”
Then she smiled at Fatty, who, God bless him, was born a little slow. Still, everyone knew that his Vespa and my house and my shop, which would be his after me, would make him an eligible husband someday.
Grocer said he had young boys to raise.
“I’m telling you he is a spy,” he said. “Probably a nonbeliever.”
Now Imam, he is an observant man, a quiet man. He listened to us, and he nodded. I said I wanted to know what the government is up to.
“We have an obligation to protect our neighborhood,” Imam said. “We must stay united.”
Before leaving for Maghrib prayer, he pulled me to the side. “Keep an eye on the man,” he said to me, and he pressed my hand between his. “And let me know if you see anything suspicious. I trust you.” Those were his exact words, sir. He trusted me.
Sir, I am nothing but a sweets maker. I have lived in these streets my entire life. But Imam has been to Mecca, sir, and Medina. He has traveled; he has seen how people live; he has studied our religion; he has even been on TV. And he trusted me. I was honored.
The next afternoon, I left Fatty to man the teashop, and told him I was going on my rounds to collect donations for the mosque. Grocer and his boy accompanied me. Bookseller opened the door to his apartment at the third knock. Behind him, a bed was leaning on its side against the wall, a MoltyFoam mattress on the floor. The bed was big, one of those types that they sometimes show in commercials during cricket matches, the ones where the man and the woman sleep together with no separation between them. I know in other parts of the city, these things happen. But here, we prefer to be modest. I am happy to say, sir, that in all my life, Fatty never saw me touch his mother.
I told Bookseller we were collecting money for roach extermination in the living quarters of the mosque where Imam stayed. I asked him if he wanted to donate.
“Not today,” he said. “Sorry.”
His wife was leaning against the wall, and the way she was standing, I could tell she was expecting a child.
“It’s a blessing to share with others,” I told him. “It will bring good fortune to your family.”
“I’ll see. Come by the shop sometime,” he said, and he closed the door.
I looked at Grocer, and he looked back at me. I could see that he was thinking the same thing I was: no one ever said no. You see, sir, how suspicious that looked? And what a thing for Grocer’s boy to hear. I was glad Fatty hadn’t been there.
“I’m telling you,” Grocer said when we walked away, “nonbeliever. Spy. Probably both.”
I didn’t judge the man, no sir, but I knew I had to leave right away and go to Imam. I could tell he was not pleased.
“This doesn’t look good,” he said to me. “Maybe try another way. Keep watching.”
So I did. I made a list of all the people who visited the bookshop in the next few days. Some were people I didn’t know. Others I vaguely recognized from the neighborhoods next to ours. Sometimes, Fatty walked by the shop, and I would see him stop in front and look at posters in the window. But he didn’t go inside, sir. He knew not to. In the afternoons, when we all gathered at my teashop, sometimes Bookseller would come out and stand under the awning of his shop. He never did more than wave at us. He just stood and looked.
Surely you can see how odd that looked, him not mixing with us like that. Anyone moving to a new neighborhood would want to know their neighbors, surely. Unless they had a reason, or instruction, not to. I started to wonder if Grocer might be right.
I came up with another plan. Seven days later, I told my wife to go to Bookseller’s house and offer to do a prayer circle for the baby. I gave her an amulet and even sent a box of my best sweets from the shop. My wife objected; she didn’t think we could afford to hand out gulab jamun for free.
But Imam says everything goes down easier with sugar. So I told her not to worry and that it was for the good of the neighborhood.
But sir, when my wife came back, she still had the amulet. Bookseller’s wife had said she didn’t want any circles or amulets; she said they didn’t believe in such things. Things, sir? How can one not believe in prayers?
“She kept the gulab jamun, though,” my wife said. “She said it’s her husband’s favorite sweet. And she asked if Fatty liked to read; she said Bookseller had seen him hanging around the shop.”
Tailor, Grocer, Fatty, Widow, and I discussed this at the mosque that evening.
“Has he asked you to come inside?” Tailor asked Fatty.
“Did you see any religious books?” Widow asked. “Magazines?”
“I was only looking at the poster in the window,” Fatty said. “Tall buildings and a tall, blue statue of a woman.”
“Was she dressed modestly?” I asked Fatty, and he blushed and looked away.
“I have heard of the government using bookstores to spread propaganda,” Grocer said.
Imam nodded.
I can’t deny it worried me. Fatty said he saw government certification right in the center of the window of the bookshop, too.
When people at the mosque saw us huddled, they joined the circle. One said he had heard spirits in black-and-white suits visited the shop at night. Another said his wife had felt a strange power when she had walked by the shop, like something was pulling her in. One man said magazines with foreign women on the covers had suddenly appeared under his bed, and his children had found his wife looking at them. They were saying all kinds of things, sir. I didn’t know what to think. Something had to be done.
Imam calmed us down. “Sometimes, God tests us by placing evil in our midst,” he said to everyone. “Be steadfast, resist, and be careful.”
Then last week, sir, Fatty disappeared around lunchtime. That is not unusual. Lately he has a habit of getting distracted easily and wandering off. Sometimes he sits down somewhere, in Barber’s shop or in that park right behind the mosque, until evening. Someone brings him to prayer, and from there, I bring him back to the teashop. Usually I don’t wait for him, but that day, one thing after another kept delaying me.
First, a pot of tea boiled and spilled all over the floor of the shop while I waited, even though the fire was no stronger than it always is. Then, when I lifted a crate of washed glasses from the back, I saw one of the glasses had a crack down the side, a long, snaking line that ended at the rim. The end of it looked like a fang. And then, out of nowhere, a cockroach ran out of my back room, across my foot, and into the street, and I had to go splash some roach poison in the hole near the kitchen drain. All this happened within a few minutes, sir, right at prayer time. Can you see how it seemed like omens?
By the time I locked the cash drawer and headed to the mosque, I could already hear the Azan from the minarets. Usually, I take this street to the left, sir, and then go all the way down and take a right and a left toward the mosque. It’s the longer way, but it’s also the way my father used to take. That day, I decided to take the street to the right.
It was hot that day, sir, and it was still. But even then, imagine the cold shiver that ran through my body as I passed Bookseller’s shop, and who do I see in there but my own Fatty.
My legs went cold, and my blood was as hot as oil that has been sitting on fire for half a day. There he was, my son, in this man’s shop, his head bent, some book on his lap. I keep thinking now, sir, what if I had gone straight to the mosque? What if I had never seen him?
Bookseller was sitting behind the counter reading when I walked in. The cover of the book had the picture of some bird on it and a thing like a yellow crescent around its neck. He put the book down, stood up, placed both his hands on the counter, and looked at me like he was waiting for me to say something.
“This is my son,” I said to him. I wanted him to be afraid of me, and I wanted him to know that I was not pleased at being in his shop.
But he just looked at me, sir, not even blinking—a long, dead stare. I had to look away.
Fatty was sitting under a poster of a tower at night, lights up and down the sides. It wasn’t a place I recognized, I can tell you that. Next to him were shelves of foreign books. In his hands was a magazine, on the cover of which I could see a picture of the sky and all the stars. My boy was in a spell. He wasn’t even flipping the pages. I called his name.
Of course, I could have been patient or kind or anything other than how I was. I have thought that many times since then. But sir, in that one moment, when my son looked up at me, I saw in his eyes something I knew well. It was the same look he had whenever he tasted a new dessert I made, this surprised look, this look like he couldn’t believe something so sweet was sitting on his tongue.
Are you a father, sir? Maybe you know what it is like to pour your entire being into creating a world for a child, and what it is like then to see them with a joy on their face that you did not bring. As if the world you have given them is suddenly not enough. It was a dagger, sir, a slash to my heart. And that is all I can say about that.
I grabbed the magazine from Fatty’s hands. All my life I protected my son, made sure nothing untoward entered his ears or polluted his heart. I had nourished him and taught him our values, the way of our family. I tore up the magazine in Fatty’s hands; then I tore more magazines and books. All I remember is thinking that I had to clean the place of that filth.
And I remember Bookseller’s hands on my arms.
“What are you doing?” he asked, and he squeezed my arm, here, just above my elbow. See, I still have a bruise. “Relax,” he said.
Relax, sir? How could I have relaxed?
“This is filth,” I said to him. I was shaking. “Who are you to bring my son in here?”
Bookseller was angry, sir. “He walked in here himself.”
“I see you; I know who you are.” I may have shouted, sir; I can’t remember. All I remember is Bookseller’s hand tightening around my arm and Fatty’s face, scared.
Bookseller leaned in so close to me, I thought I could see beyond his dark, devious eyes, like I was sliding through them, inside him. His voice was like a hiss, sir. “You know nothing at all.”
He said these exact words to me, sir. He said that I know nothing at all.
I took Fatty straight home. I didn’t go to the mosque. I didn’t even go back to the shop that day. I didn’t feel like eating dinner.
That night was when I had the dream.
In the dream a snake came toward me. It was black and shiny, and a yellow line ran along its back. I tried to step over it, but it leapt at me and curled itself around my chest. And when I tried to move, it tightened its hold, and when I grabbed its head with my hands, it bit me and then kept biting. I could actually feel the pain, sir, in my half-sleep. Actual pain in my body. I can still see the fangs, yellow half-crescents making holes on my arms and my legs. And still there was no blood, and I did not die. Finally, the snake shriveled, its hold around me loosened, and it died.
I did not want to get out of bed in the morning. I was trembling and sweating, and my wife kept wiping my forehead and bringing me tea.
“You have to get up,” she said. “You have to talk to Imam.”
I did not want to, you understand? I didn’t know how I was going to face anyone. But I knew she was right, so I got dressed and went to the mosque. I told Imam about Fatty, and Bookseller, and I waited for him to tell me I had failed as a father.
“Yes,” Imam nodded. “You are right to be troubled.”
Then I told him about my dream.
Imam closed his eyes for a very long time. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and somber.
“This neighborhood must be respected.” This is what he said.
“Such things will poison our belief.” This is what he said.
“Something must be done about the snake.” This is what he said, and he looked me right in the eyes. “This is what your father would have wanted.”
And then he asked me to stand next to him, and we prayed.
You see there was only one way to understand that, don’t you? I can tell that you don’t. You come from a different life. You believe in change and moving and finding new places for people. I believe in roots, sir, and carrying on tradition. Although, now, of course, I have nothing to pass and no one to pass it to. There’s the rub, sir.
Well, that night, after my wife and Fatty had gone to bed, I went back to my shop. I heated up the oil. Then I mixed gram flour with water and sugar and added a little extra saffron for color. I took extra care to roll the gulab jamun in the palm of my hand, just as my father had taught me. I kept thinking I had to start teaching Fatty our business, give him something to occupy his interest. I had let him be idle for too long. Then I slipped the gulab jamun into the boiling oil. Each was a perfect sphere, a plump, saffron moon. When they were fried, I dipped each in the jar of roach poison and then left them on a tray to cool overnight.
My wife made rice and boiled eggs for breakfast. I remember because I had asked her to make Fatty’s favorite. Fatty was still sleeping, so I told her to send him to me when he awoke; I would send money back with him from the shop, and she could take him to buy some new shoes, maybe a new stand for his Vespa. Then I went about my work. It was a good day for business, sir. The shrine down near Jilani Road always gets busy around now, and I sell a lot of sweets to people looking to make offerings there.
Late afternoon, Fatty arrived. He was still wearing the clothes he had worn at night. He sat under the awning of the shop, next to Imam, and refused to answer when Widow, Grocer, and Milkboy talked to him. I could tell he was upset. I ruffled his hair and poked him in his side, but his eyes stayed quiet. I tried to feed him fresh jalebis with hot milk, his favorite snack, sir, but he shook his head and turned away. I asked him if he wanted to go for a ride on his Vespa, and he shook his head. I can’t tell you what that felt like, sir, to see my boy like that.
Then Imam asked me for the box of gulab jamun I had made the night before. Of course, sir, I had told him what I had done.
“I have a special task for you,” he told Fatty, and he took the box from my hands.
That seemed to cheer Fatty up a little. Imam handed him the box.
“Drop this to Bookseller,” he said. “Tell him your father is sorry.”
I wanted to take the box back, sir. I didn’t want my boy involved. But you should have seen Fatty, sir. His eyes were sparks.
“Does this mean I can go back to the bookshop?” The look on his face, the joy. My heart felt like melting sugar. But fathers have to do hard things to teach their children, to pass on their values. So I lied, and I hoped Allah would forgive me.
“Yes,” I said. “Anytime you want.”
We watched Fatty walk down the street until he got to Bookseller’s shop.
“For the good of the neighborhood,” Imam said, and he touched my arm like he could sense it shaking. “And it will put a smile on his face.” I sat down and watched.
It was the slowest hour of my life, sir. The sun had already started moving to the east, and I was starting to worry when Bookseller and Fatty stumbled out into the street. From where I was, it looked like the two of them were embracing. I stood up. My breath was quick, sir, I remember. My face felt like I had dipped it into the hot oil behind me. Bookseller was screaming and saying something. Fatty had his arms around Bookseller’s neck.
“What is wrong with him?” Grocer asked.
“Should we go and see?” Widow asked.
Imam said nothing. I stepped out in front of the shop and called out to Fatty. I was ready to comfort him, to be a father. But Fatty didn’t turn to me, and Bookseller kept screaming and pointing, each movement more frantic than the last. Above him, I saw a window open, and his wife leaned out.
And then I knew.
It was as if the sun exploded in my stomach. My vision blurred, my arms started to tingle, and my mouth went dry.
I ran.
I ran to the shop, to Bookseller, who was kneeling on the ground now, holding my boy, and screaming still.
My boy, sir. He was in pain. His face. I hadn’t ever seen his face look like that. He couldn’t even cry, sir, and his eyes. He was looking at me for help, sir.
I stuck my hand in his mouth. His tongue kept sliding backward, and my fingers were wet with the froth that kept bubbling forward from the back of his throat.
“What did you do?” Bookseller kept saying over and over. “What did he do?”
I looked behind me. Imam, grocer, bookseller, and Widow were standing there.
“Help me,” I begged them.
They tried. They tried to get Fatty to throw up. Widow said prayers over him. I will never forget what they did. But sir, I will also never forget that Imam didn’t move at all. He stood there, still, and then he turned and headed in the direction of the mosque. And that was when I knew what you say is right, sir. He never cared for me at all. Not even one bit.
I held him, sir. I screamed at Allah to save him. I said prayers. I begged Bookseller to forgive me and to help my boy. He called the ambulance, but it was too late. No one could do anything. Fatty died there in my arms. I held him against me, and I felt his heartbeat become weaker. And when his soul floated out of his body, I knew he was going to take mine with it.
I have told you the truth, sir, and I have nothing more left. I deserve prison; worse, even. But sir, if Bookseller hadn’t moved here, would we even be talking? 
