Page 217 - Musings 2020

fellow shouted so loud, it shook the entire vehicle. “I swear I saw him holding somebody’s
head!” he wailed. This perfectly innocuous incident set into motion a series of chaotic events
– people jumped out of their seats and out of the bus as a local policeman stormed into the
vehicle. The do-gooder man pointed promptly at Zakhir, and even the confused policeman
took on an expression of immense fear. All of this, as Zakhir looked on as dazed as ever.

Nobody in the camp liked Zakhir because he was far too intimidating. He lived in a house
with his wife and two children, but his house was always dark and the windows were always
closed. The rumours had escalated so much that people believed he sold dead body parts to
the Pakistanis. The war against him had reached mammoth proportions and when the word
“Pakistani” joined the fray, sensitivity, and silent chaos ensued.

I, however, was intrigued by this drama with the dead bodies and the people of the camp. I
decided to try to get close to him and I did so by walking down his path and knocking on his
door. I wanted to find out more about him and wanted to write about it. Surely there was a lot
more to him than met the eye, or rather the ear, in his case.

“Hi, Zakhir,” I said brightly to him one fine morning. “I completely sympathize with your
problem. And I love Rabindranath Tagore, just like you do. I’d like to chat with you and get
to know a lot more about you so that I can write about you.”

“You’ve lost your marbles, clearly! Why would a decent man like you want to make yourself
an enemy? I smell decidedly bad, I carry body parts deep in my pockets, and you’ll definitely
fall ill if you linger around me. Hasn’t all this been talked about in all those stories? Catch on,
sir. You’re better off without me.”

I’d been rejected. I watched from the corner of my eyes as Zakhir moved away and stood by
the edge of the path, where every morning, an ambulance picked him up to take him to the
hospital. Of course he had already attempted to travel via taxi, but no taxi driver would even
hear of it.

I decided to let it slide. One fine evening to the neighbours’ surprise, I rapped sharply on
Zakhir’s door, this time with a suitcase full of novels by Rabindranath Tagore. As I waited
patiently for the door to turn, I heard a woman whisper dramatically to her wide-eyed
neighbour, “It’s true! Who would’ve thought? That man must have a business in corpses with
Zakhir. Do you see the size of his box there?”

Zakhir opened the door and tilted his head awkwardly towards me as if he were questioning
my existence. Without a word, he welcomed me inside his house.

“Hello, dear sir,” he started. “How may I help you?”

I simply tipped the suitcase full of Rabindranath’s books over, while carefully studying his
expression. His face brimming with delight, he called me excitedly to the living room and
ushered in his wife and children. The wife, suitably impressed, insisted that I spend time with
everyone over a small dinner. I ended up enjoying myself enough to spend the entire night
making small talk with everyone in the house and fooling around with his lovely kids. I was
pampered with fresh fruit, dry nuts, and delicious Darjeeling tea, while I narrated hilarious

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