From beedies to Cuban

Abdul Rahman Khadir was born to poverty. He was his bappa’s companion and shadow. His baappa use to send him to buy cheap home made beedies from labba kakka’s shop. He stole a beedie or two and smoked secretly. By the age of 11 he was an avid smoker. Soon he distinguished himself as an avid drinker too. His father’s other woman and local shack Maggie Sarada poured him her home made concoction. Soon he found a job in Chalai market in the city. He bought himself Kaja beedi and genuine arrack. He volunteered his time to be a professional thug for a well known politician. This connection took him to Bombay. When he was on vacations he came regularly to my uncle’s shop to buy Gold Flakes and club soda. It was only a matter of time, before he went to gulf. He walked around with a pack of Marlboro and a whiff of Eau De Toilette. Johny Walker was his new found taste. He opened a modest electronics shop in Dubai and as luck would have it, tasted the sweet nicotine of success. He ordered the finest boxed cigars from Cuba and sipped the best of single malt from Scotland. His empire grew. He owns a chain of electronics stores in Dubai, Bahrain and Quatar. He is retired now and back in our village leading a dream life, addicted to home made beedies and illicit local brew.

A father is raising his son. Trying to refine him to be benevolent and kind like Gandhi, think like Isaac Newton, write like Charles Dickens, speak like Winston Churchill, succeed in life like Bill Gates and be modest and humble like Jesus Christ. He pushes him to be the best human being in the whole world. But Goddammit! He doesn’t realize that the son is a teeny tiny little kid running around in his cute little size-2 underwear, crushing a pappadam his mother gave him all over the room. Father wants to achieve what he couldn’t, living the life he didn’t, through the life of his son. I am myself guilty of that crime.

The wife is trying to clean up the pappadam mess. Literally on a war footing, she is now on a tug or war with the stubborn vacuum cleaner. The machine refuses to pick up the little pieces of crumbled pappadam. She is cursing, kicking and abusing it as if it is her husband. She seems to be giving up. The machine is running full power - she is gently squatting down, picking up the pieces bit by bit and feeding it to the vacuum cleaner. Now if you would excuse me I would like to go to the patio and get a good laugh.