It’s been almost more than a month since I am seeing this: one after the other, a book is devoured as its pages are sacrificed in the service of packing those rotis for customers at the tandoor in the market nearby. Sometimes, it’s a book on mathematics, sometimes on economics, sometimes on biology.
In fact, the first book whose pages I had witnessed becoming wet from the steam of fresh rotis as they are put together in a shopper bag, was on cardiology. As I stood near the tandoor slab, my eyes suddenly set on the page of a book. I initially had no idea that what I was looking at was a book! – ‘what’s this; they always have telephone directories or newspaper fragments for that purpose’, I thought. But as I closely observed the intricate names and graphs on it, I noticed that it was a book of a very high level – precisely when did I actually came to know that it was just a ‘book’ is still a mystery. I think my two thoughts (or neurochemical pathways perhaps) about the identification that it was a book and it was a high-level book had merged.
Anyway, I couldn’t at first make out what kind of a book it was. Some headings on the page in front of me hinted that it was a medical book, while owing to some other figures, I had to surmise that it was related to physics.
‘Oh wait…it’s…’, I thought – or I think I thought. But there was some thought that made me to turn the whole book; since the front cover was absent, I had to turn the whole book after I had been convinced that the back cover was intact. So it was – lo and behold! The book cover said: “Essential Cardiology”!
Can you believe that! I too cannot. Indeed, I was shocked, surprised – but not so much as flabbergasted; might it be due to what – as it now comes to my mind while writing this – sometimes our previous physics teacher would say about our notes ending in samosa shops and tandoors, so that I was already aware, however unconsciously, that incidents of such sorts could also occur?
Whatever the cause may be, through all this time during which I had seen all those books being wasted, I had not once asked the tandoor workers not to do this perhaps, because of my cowardly temperament; or perhaps, because I had envisaged, somewhat incorrectly, the answer I would have received: ‘We are not educated and so aware of this like you, sir…’, or worse yet, ‘This is Pakistan!’.
It often happens that we judge and understand events and people under the influence of our past experiences and presuppositions; that we impose our past upon our present and our future. But thanks to the Ever Merciful Master Who enables us to rise above our own selves and to contribute…to…you-know-what.
Thus, it all turned out against my conjectures – on that day, the day when…
I talked to the tandoor-owner.
I remember those moments. A pleasant night. An ecstatic weather. Sky, I don’t remember. Noise – a healthy one. Although I don’t remember the details except for those about the rotis, I do remember that if any of my o level’s English teachers were to read this paragraph, they’d not approve of my usage of the same word multiple times and of my irritating lethargy in not using its synonyms, because I remember that they would always advise us to remember that we should not forget to remember – you know what.
So I was at the remembrance of the details of the rotis. May be, this was the result of my routinely observation of those rotis. Moreover, the whiteness of them as they come out of the fiercy furnace has always been a source of fascination. I still have reminiscences of my childhood when I’d marvel at the whiteness of parathas when my mother would just bring them down from the frying pan; and of my subsequent disillusionment when I would eat them – after some time, they would turn brown. I was equally fond of white omelettes with red beads – due to the coalesced spots of powdered red spices when they are not mixed well – and white elevations – the insufficiently fried parts of omelettes – on them.
Before approaching the owner of the tandoor after buying the rotis, I silently recited one of my favourite prayers (which I also recited many times while writing this):
“O Allah, I seek the counsel of Your knowledge, and I seek the help of Your omnipotence, and I beseech You for Your magnificent grace. Surely, You are capable and I am not. You know and I know not, and You are the knower of the unseen. O Allah, if You know that this matter is good for me in my religion and in my life and for my welfare in the life to come in both the short term and the long term, then ordain it for me and make it easy for me, then bless me in it. And if You know that this matter is bad for me in my religion and in my life and for my welfare in the life to come in both the short term and the long term, then distance it from me, and distance me from it, and ordain for me what is good wherever it may be, and help me to be content with it.”
‘Who supplies you with these papers for packing rotis’, I asked.
‘Why? Do you also want to buy them’ Amin said in a polite, subtle manner.
‘No. Actually, previously you used only newspapers etc., but now, the books you’re using…some of them are worth seven or eight thousand rupees.’
‘We’re aware. Actually, almost a month and a half before, the supplier gave us sacks full of these books…’, Amin tried to explain.
‘But these are very very high-level books. Extremely beneficial. Their such treatment is a great source of loss for students.’
‘We have those sacks so that if some student wants them, he can take them.’
Surprised, I inquired, ‘How much all these’d cost if I were to take them?’
He replied, ‘There are many. Upstairs and downstairs as well. Many sacks full. You may check which ones do you want and take them for free…in which class are you?’
‘A levels. Kind of FSC you may say. I’m a student of science so I need books relating to that.’
‘You may see and take any books you want. That’s what we intended.’ He offered generously.
I could only hold some of the books that I found in a sack downstairs. While leaving the place, I thanked Mr. Amin for his deep respect for knowledge and concerns over it being wasted – he replied, ‘Read them and…
pray for us.’
How I felt after all this? Astounded. Happy. Blithe. Thankful. And,…you-know-what!
