Khasim's parables - page 2

As the evening sun was drowning into the vastness of time, a small group of locals settled around Khasim. It was story time! Khasim seemed to concentrate at something near by. The group relaxed meanwhile anticipating the treat of words that would begin at any time. A small boy whispered to his friend 'now Khasim dada will tell us the story of the train robbery' and his friend immediately snapped back 'no, he is going to tell us the tale about the naughty monkeys in the guava orchard'. The argument came under the notice of a few elders who began a deep contemplation mentally about what Khasim's world of words had in store for them for the cool night.

Khasim lifted his eyes and looked at his audience and gave a mischievous smile. He began weaving words ' Today I am going to tell you about a mystery that I have failed to solve all these years. In spite of racking my brains several times I have failed to reach any conclusion regarding this incident.' He let out a deep sigh of defeat. The crowd was almost astonished at Khasim's despair. They had never seen him fail, he was an undefeated king to them. And this story became a vivid memory in the minds of everyone present that day.

'In those zamana, kameera (camera) was something very special. It was each person's ambition to get his or her tasveer (photo) taken atleast once before one's death. When we finished college, that is about half a century behind the present time; all of us were eager to have our photo taken wearing the black coat with the degree in hand. We had seen our seniors do it and now it was our turn. "It would be the best day of my life" my friend Rahim had been repeating day and night. But it turned out to be an unfortunate day for all of us.' A moment of silence. Khasim seemed to have become nostalgic. His eyes were fixed at the tube light.

'This light you see, a flash of light from the camera - harmless isn't it! But it was the cost of someone's life. All of us wore our coats and posed for the camera. Those days the camera was not as handy as it is now. the photographer would hide in a blanket to take a photo and a flash of light would appear as a signal that it's over. the apparatus was huge. It was our first time in front of camera. We smiled widely with all our teeth exposed. And then a flash of light followed. It almost scared me at first. A scream followed and we saw Rahim screaching with fear. He had held a current something. It was a shock and he died before any medical treatment could be given.'

The audience were silent. Eagerly waiting for the next few words. No one moved from their place.

'after several weeks of this tragedy, the photographer came running to us with the photo. None of us were eager to see it. It remainded us of the dreadful day. But he begged us to look at it as something was special. and we agreed to have a look. The reaction was one of astonishment and dread. Rahim was not to be seen in the photo. His outline remained at the place where he stood. None of the other people were found missing.'

Khasim rose in a dignified manner and walked towards his hut. The rest were lost into the mystery of death.

Khasim's parables- page 1

‘You haven’t heard this one. Listen! Listen! When I was a boy there was rumor at the madarasah that a man eater has entered our village. “He roams through the fields at night and takes away the children” my friends claimed. The only remains I heard from Abba were bones scattered a few hundred feet away…….’ Khasim began his story enthusiastically around his audience. Around ten men of all age groups Khasim ventured on yet another journey to the good old days. His listeners were engrossed. The story about the man eater ended on a triumphant mode with the great Jim Corbett entering the scene to end the life of the man eater.Khasim fondly remembered the white man, his hat and the magical instrument which showed animals roaming far away and green color of his eyes. The crowd applauded at the victory of good over evil. They clapped joyously and for that moment they were not the audience to Khasim’s story of the man eater but they considered themselves to be witnesses of the brave act of the Jim Corbett. ‘Corbett Sahib looked so pale that he resembled a ghost in the dark. My friend used to swear that Sahib could smell tiger from miles away and he was always right’ Khasim recollected.
That was the charm of Khasim’s story telling. He was gifted with the art of story telling and this art he practiced laboriously to reach the state of a perfectionist. People would forget their pains and stay mesmerized when Khasim was narrating a story. This allowed him to gain the affections of the people. Khasim was a retired clerk from the post office. In his retired life, he spent most of the time around people under the banyan tree speaking about the past. Many women gathered outside their house varandah’s to listen to Khasim’s stories. And children liked him the most. Khasim was a widower now and had no children. In many ways his stories was medicine to people. They never considered Khasim as a trammel. At times of distress they were motivated to stay positive by Heera’s character of Khasim’s story and at other times some one guilty would suddenly confess his crime lest he and his family not be punished like Hassan’s story that Khasim narrated. There were episodes of story telling when the whole crowd rejoiced with laughter at funny episodes from his stories. These people preferred Khasim’s story rather than a bioscope reel.