The Missing Man

Original: Ghazanfar

Translated from the Urdu by Zainab Fatma

As soon as the walls of our house were painted the colour I chose, my children began to wrinkle their noses in disapproval.

My son said, “Papa! What kind of colour are you having done? Please stop this.”

“Yes, Papa! This does not look good at all. You should consider mauve or any other newer colour.” My daughter added.

“Why? What is wrong with this colour?” I asked them.

“Papa, this looks very dull and clumsy. It will ruin the beauty of our house.” My son listed the flaws.

“Yes, Papa! Sunny is right. This colour is very unpleasant.” My daughter chimed in.

“No, no. This colour is good. It will be perfect.”

“What, Papa! What kind of taste do you have? Look, this colour does not suit at all. Please stop.” My son began to insist.

“For God’s sake, Papa, do not go with this colour.” My daughter also pressed me.

“No, this will be good. I like this.” I resolved to stick to my decision.

“Papa, you are being stubborn.” My son said.

“Yes, you are being stubborn, Papa.” My daughter was one with his opinion.

“Yes, I am being stubborn; I am stubborn, and I am determined to have things my way.” My tone grew harsh.

My children turned sad and walked away.

“You are being stubborn.”

This sentence pierced me deeply like an arrow dipped in poison. Suddenly a series of memories flashed before me. I had planned to buy a plot for my house in Iqrar colony, in line with my status, but ended up purchasing in the more expensive area of Sir Syed Nagar. I chose a white Maruti, but a steel grey Santro it was that eventually came to my house. I wanted my children to attend university schools, but they opted for Lady Fatima instead.

Everything seemed to be driven by their preferences, whether it was the TV, fridge, sofa, or bed. There was a hidden stubbornness in their choices.

Yet they claim I am being adamant. Where is my stubbornness? Where is my will?

I began to search for my own stubbornness and will.

Moments later, their mother came out of the house and spoke to me softly.

“Why are you spoiling their mood? Why don’t you listen to them? Ultimately, they will live in this house. We are simply guests for a short while. What is the point of imposing our choices on them? Both were genuinely excited and happy for the new house, but your stubbornness has dampened their enthusiasm and joy. They are now sitting here, sad and melancholic. Have you thought about how that might affect their studies? This fixation on colour will spoil their focus on studies. Please, for God’s sake, listen to them and stop the work.”

My wife, as usual, reminded me of the responsibilities of parenthood and the idea of childish obstinacy, urging me to stay quiet for the sake of my children.

I have never wanted to make my children sad or to see them downcast. Nor did I want to see their faces lose their shine or their hearts become heavy with despair.

Her mention of their sadness brought their sorrowful faces to my mind.

“Fine, do whatever you all like. I won’t say a thing.” I repeated, as I always did.

My wife, pleased and content, left to share the good news with the kids, and I, as per my habit, fell into a nostalgic reverie. My childhood unfolded before me.

“Abba! Abba!”

“Why do you keep repeating that? Why don’t you say something?”

“Abba, I don’t want to study at the village madrasa. I want to go to the mission school in the city.”

“What did you say? You won’t study at the madrasa? You want to become a Christian by attending the mission school! Don’t you dare say that again­­.”

Suddenly my lips sealed in a tight line, and I pulled a long face. The light in my eyes faded.

“Abba! Abba!”

“Again, Abba! Abba! How many times have I told you not to lisp? Speak clearly.”

“Yes, Abba!”

“Speak up! What is it you want to say?”

“Abba! I want to buy a coloured bicycle—the one with a blue handle, red frame, and thin tyres.”

“No, Hercules is better. It is very sturdy.”

“No, I only want that one.”

“I have said it – the Hercules cycle will come.”

“No, I will not get the Hercules cycle. I want the coloured one.”

Slap!

“Take this coloured cycle. I will beat your face red if you persist like this.”

In tears, I retreated to my small room with its tiny brick walls and wept continuously.

As I cried, I kept hoping that Abba would come to me, wipe my tears, and comfort me. But he didn’t come. I remembered a time when I was ill and Abba had stayed up all night, gently sponging my forehead and offering solace.

As I grew older, my feelings of being unheard continued. I wanted to study at Aligarh Muslim University, but Abba enrolled me at Bihar University instead. I expressed my wish to marry a girl of my choice, but Abba displayed his strict behaviour like Chengiz Khan and firmly refused.

Reflecting on the past only deepened my sadness, and tears began to fall.

“Why are you so worried? It is an obligation on parents to fulfil the desires of their children and adapt to their stubbornness. Ultimately, finding joy in their happiness is what matters. You should not be worried or upset over this.”

I felt as if my wife was comforting me, but she was occupied with work in the kitchen.

I went to check if my sadness had affected the kids but found them absorbed in a comic show on TV, completely unaware of my presence.

I have often had bouts of sadness while trying to keep my children happy. I have sacrificed my own desires and even crushed my ego. I wished they would understand what I go through, that they ask about my unhappiness and express concern. Instead, they would always forget me while celebrating their victories over me.

I quietly returned to my room, stared at the ceiling for a while, and then left the room.

The painters had resumed their work. A new colour was being painted on the wall, which was obscuring the previous colour. I watched the transition for a while.

Then I moved inside to find my kids still engrossed in the TV serial while my wife was busy in the kitchen. I returned to my room and lay down.

The shifting colours seemed to descend from the walls to my eyes.

The colours appeared to blur, dancing like fireflies before my eyes. Suddenly my house began to rise before my eyes.

First, the foundation lifted. It brought to light my needs that had been buried under it. After the foundation, the walls rose. The walls revealed all my desires that had been suppressed to raise them. Next, the ceiling elevated. It uncovered the loan that I had taken to support it. Finally, the colour that I had chosen for myself and the one that my children had insisted upon descended to my eyes and shone brightly.

Foundation, walls, ceilings—all slipped away from me, leaving only the colours behind.

Gradually, one colour faded while the other darkened. My gaze fixed at the darker hue.

This was the colour of my children’s stubbornness which had sent me back to my childhood. I started looking around for it but could not find a way out. I saw it near my Abba.

I retreated to the present from the sad nostalgic trip. I found myself in the role of  ‘Abba’ without possessing the colours of an ‘Abba.’. My children had reserved that hue for themselves.

I felt I was neither in the past nor in the present.