Rage

“I will give you the money for sure next time. Now stop shitting around and give me that goddamned bottle will you” he yelled at the woman in the toddy shop.

An old man, squatting in a corner, looked up half dreamily. Shaking his head, he cursed everybody in general, someone in particular and continued to gulp down the contents of his bottle. He seemed happy and angry at the same time.

Sitting amidst the liquor bottles, Haseena wiped her face with a green towel which she flung back on her bosom. She leaned forward, spat two streams of thick red beetle juice with practiced ease and inclined back against her pillow.

Dressed shabbily in a tattered brown pant that had long forgotten its original white color and an orange shirt with a few patches of dying red, Imam looked around. The place was filled with men having their share of ecstasy while he stood there deprived of one.

“What’s the matter with you bitch? Why don’t you trust…” before he could complete the sentence, Haseena grabbed a bottle by its neck and flung it in his direction with all her might. Imam ducked in time, saving himself a battered bloodied face as the white bottle hit the wall behind him and burst into a riot of colorless glass pieces.

“You call me a bitch again; I will have that niggly-wiggly thing of yours cut off you bastard. The next time you step out of your house fill your pockets before you loiter in this direction. Now get going lest I crack your skull. I don’t miss twice….” she breathed fire.

Shocked at her rage and bemused at her logic of smashing a bottle of toddy and daring to risk another but not lending him one, Imam stared blankly. He scratched his 5 day stubble and then his unruly hair and then his crotch before slowly starting to walk home. He walked past the squatting old man when the latter broke into a fit of uncontrolled laughter. He laughed till he had tears in his eyes which ultimately made the threatening image of Imam standing in front of him look very blurry. He rubbed his eyes and looked again. This time he saw clearly; a hand drew back and before long was coming at him with full force. When it landed on his jaw, he lurched back and banged his head against the wall and fell flat on his face, giving out a feeble muffled laugh before blackness descended. Imam spat on his face and continued to walk with renewed rage, unaware of the blood dripping from the old man’s nose.

The dingy street where his shanty belonged was bustling with life as Imam walked into it. The clanging and banging noises from the workshops reverberated across the street. Riyaz the welder put down his welding gun and ran out of his workshop on seeing Imam walk past. “Imam bhai…our Sajeth here says that you have been fired… is that true…Imam Bhai…fuck that paper mart…fuck that owner...Allah is great Imam bhai…don’t you worry”. Imam continued walking, his bare feet hurrying past on the dusty road. A nude boy with a stick in one hand and a cycle tire in front, ran feverishly past him followed by his semi nude sister.

Old hags sat on wooden stools and pulled out lice from the heads of their grandsons, granddaughters, daughters and sons; in short, anyone willing to lend their heads. Men and children watched movies in the new color TV donated by the government. Pictures of political leaders long dead adorned the mud walls of the huts. Women were washing their clothes in small slabs of concrete. Imam muttered foul words under his breath when a few drops of soap water got into his eyes. Rubbing his eyes he paid little attention to the feces lying on the roadside and ended up stepping on it. “Badmash…Badmash…” he cried out loud and rubbed his filthy foot on the garbage pile strewn nearby.

He walked again, his mind filled with images of the paper mart owner shouting obscenities at him, spitting on his face before catching him by the collar and throwing him onto the streets. He had pleaded his innocence and ignorance about the missing money. He had begged catching his leg and ended up getting kicked repeatedly on the head by the other leg. He suddenly touched his head and felt the mud particles in his hair. He spat on the roadside and continued walking. Son of a bitch. And then that Haseena. That whore of a woman who wouldn’t give him a bottle of toddy. Did that have something to do with him being fired? “News travels fast” he thought. And what was that remark on cutting off his niggly-wiggly thing. Hadn't she remarked immediately that anyway it was of no use? Had she really told that or was he hallucinating?

She might have told. 2 years since marriage and not a child to call his own. The streets had already been rife with the rumors of his impotency. He looked at the woman standing near the electric transformer. Did she laugh at him? Did she mock him? Did she think about him as a weakling?

Spat on the face
Thrown on the streets
Kicked on the head
Attacked by a woman
Mocked by an old man
Soap water in his eyes
Mud on his head
Shit on his leg

Rage frothed in his internal organs. Anger blazed in his eyes. Frustration ran through his blood vessels. How shabbily people treated him. Like a worm. Like a fart. Like a piece of shit that he just stepped on. He muttered and cursed and then suddenly remembered smashing that old man. And he instantly felt better. He stopped and recollected that incident again. The image of that wretched old man banging his head on the wall and falling on his face played vividly in his mind. He felt the excitement. And suddenly he felt all powerful.

He was not weak. He was no worm. He was no fart. He was no shit. He was Imam.

Imam the powerful.

He pulled out a beedi from behind his ear and lit it. He did not need liquor to feel better. He had something at home which would make him more happy and powerful than a bottle of toddy. He picked up a iron rod lying outside a workshop and walked energetically towards his run down shackle where his mute wife Zeenath waited eagerly for his arrival…

…to announce her pregnancy.