“Because Allah Loves You”

From high-profile fashion designers and page-three people housed in the plush residences of South Delhi, to the middle-class and upper middle-class strata of the West, from the business families of Rajouri Garden, to the poverty-stricken slums of Seemapuri in the East, Delhi thrives on the most disparate lifestyles one can, or cannot, imagine. The capital city of India, thus, is home to all: the rich, the very rich, the poor and the very poor. No matter how modern we may claim to be becoming, a certain section of the society seems inevitably destined, unfortunately so, to live lives of poverty, hunger and misery. While the wealthy live, unaware of what all they have, the poor also live, unaware of what all they do not have.

Hiba and Hamid's is a story belonging to the latter of the two categories.

“... So, that is how you do it. Make sure you have blown just enough air into the toy—nothing more, nothing less. If it is less, it will look bad and they won’t buy it. If you keep filling in more gas, it could burst. So you have to be very, very careful. Okay, Hiba?”

It took Hamid around twenty minutes to explain to his sister the basics of the craft he had mastered by now, at just twelve years of age. “But, why are we making these toys, bhai?” Hiba asked innocently. “To earn money,” he tried to brush aside the silliness in the question, and picked up another toy to breathe life into. But the little girl had more on her mind.

“How will we earn money through these?” she shot back again.

“By selling them, silly!” he retorted.

“Who buys them, bhaijaan?” came another one.

“The rich people!” went a roar. Hamid was getting impatient; he missed the fact that his sister was merely eight. But on hearing her squeal within, he calmed down. “You see, the ones who have more money than us... their kids ask for new toys every day. So we make these nice things for them... balloons, balls, toys of T.V. cartoons and so on. They buy these from us and we get the money. Simple, isn’t it?” a politer tongue spoke this time.

“But...” Hiba feared upsetting Hamid again. She quietly turned her face away and began to look outside at the cars whizzing past the little shop. Hamid spoke a minute later:

“Okay, you are new here and my sweet little sister. I forgot that, sorry! Will not speak like that again. Go on.”

The loveliest as well as the most irritating thing about little children is that they cannot keep their questions to themselves, which they have aplenty, Hamid recalled his father saying so.

Hiba turned to him; the license to speak made her resume her questionnaire as if it had never paused: “Nothing much, but, I was just wondering, bhaijaan, that, we are also children. Why should we make toys for them? Ammi says we should do our work on our own. Then why can’t we play with the things we make with so much hard work? Those rich spoilt kids should make their playthings themselves—the way you do, shouldn’t they?”

Something in Hiba’s last question hit Hamid hard. Really hard. For he found himself stupefied. And why not! No matter how much labor he had already been through, no matter how much Ali and Salma were trying to carve their son mature and able as soon as possible—so he could share with his father the responsibility to earn the family’s bread and butter—Hamid still was a child. Just four years older than the inquisitive Hiba. Children, they say, are like potter’s clay. Hamid was clay, but more. He was a well-molded vessel already. A rather hard-patted one for his age.

“Because they are rich and we are not,” was all that he could mumble for an answer. “When Ammi taught us that everyone should do their work themselves, she didn’t add that rich people are an exception. They can get their work done, if they please. Because they have... paisa.” Had Ali been around all this while, it would have elated him to see how fast his son was growing, really. For this twelve-year-old had, in simple words, summed up the funny hypocritical way our society works.

“Wrong, wrong... ” Hiba mumbled, after considering for few moments. “Bhaijaan?”

“What, now?” he saw the frustration coming back, but decided to not let it take over. The loveliest as well as the most irritating thing about little children is that...

“I want that doll,” Hiba announced.

Hamid upped an eyebrow. “What?”

“That one, there.” The little rebel’s index finger rose and guided Hamid’s bewildered eyes towards a giggling alter ego of Barbie.

He stared. “But why?”

“Because I made it and I like it,” she spoke with carefree confidence. More than thirty minutes into the intense discussion, Hamid finally knew what had really been on her mind. Smart kid, he thought somewhere.

Her demand, to him, seemed anything but illicit. Because I made it and I like it. “Okay. I’ll ask Abbu tonight. But till then please be quiet. Let me do my work now.” He returned to his things.

With hands skillfully at work, his mind couldn't help but wonder. She made it and she liked it. Is Hiba wrong?

***

When the family's only daughter turned eight last week, Salma thought Hiba was now “old enough” to help her father at his “enterprise". Ali argued that his little angel had not yet developed enough physical strength to sustain pumping and blowing air into their toys all day. Besides, he said, Hiba should be helping her mother with the household chores: chores that included almost mothering her two-year-old twin brothers. But Salma assured him that she was, by Allah's good grace, in health good enough to look after the home and children herself for now. And that Hiba would be of better help to Ali and Hamid.

Salma's conviction reigned and thus, Hiba was stamped to spend the rest of her childhood working by the roadside, making toys at an age when she should be playing with them.

Hamid could be seen sweating it out on all days of the week, twelve hours a day, at the footpath beside one of the busiest roads in West Delhi. Never been to school, he helped his father in his wobbly business. “Business”: too big a word perhaps, for a job that required them to pump air into inflatable plastic toys all day. That, amidst the uncertainty of a passer-by caring to even spare a look, let alone want to buy them. But in this part of the world, almost anything that can fetch a day's meal, qualifies to be called a profession, an occupation, a job... or better still, an entire business. And so, this job of breathing life into colorful playthings for the “luckier children” of the city is all that Ali, and now his two kids, had to their name. Forever.

While Hiba sat some distance away with her first-day questions still puzzling her, Hamid skilfully blew into Doraemon the obesity it is best known for. But, his mind was restless. Because I made it and I like it. He recalled a conversation he had had a few days ago with Ali, when he was leaving for a nearby street to catch on some business a friend had told him about. "Abbu, I am only twelve. Why do I have to do so much work?" Hamid had asked then. His words probably had Ali dumbfounded, for he had tried to escape it with a timid "Khuda-Hafiz".

"Abbu?!" Hamid had asked again, with even more desperate eyes this time—eyes that Ali's fatherly instinct could not resist for once.

"Son, you are Allah’s special child,” Ali had said gently. “Allah wants you to work hard for everything. You should consider yourself lucky. Not many get to earn their bread so early in life.”

Shaken out of the thoughts by a minor bee sting, Hamid’s attention came a full circle back to his pending work, and Hiba. Clinging on to the cuff of his muddy shirt, Hiba was insisting that he let her help him. “No. You don’t know yet how this is done. Watch and learn,” he commanded in an elder-brotherly tone. Hiba looked at him with sulking eyes and a grumpy look. Unabated, he continued pumping more gas into what seemed like a cheap look-alike of Winnie the Pooh. If silence could instigate fire, Hiba would have been reduced to ashes by now.

Digging her right hand into a tattered rag curiously, she pulled out at random an anorexic version of Wobbly-Man. The bigger it is, the better bhai would know of my strength.

She stood up, fixed the pump’s pipe to Wobbly-Man’s valve. With her little hands and feet firmly in place, she tried to pump as much air into the thermoplastic toy as she could. One, two, three... in no time, she was gasping for breath. Sulkiness made way for respect towards Hamid, who was still at it, tirelessly creating more and more toys every new minute. Just when she was about to withdraw her demand for the toy she badly wanted half an hour ago, Hamid looked up and grinned at her. “Not angry anymore?” he winked. “No,” Hiba replied sheepishly.

“I’ll ask Abbu tonight. About that doll of yours.”

***

Later that evening before dinner, when Ali turned back after washing his hands, he found Hamid standing barely half a hand away. “You scared me!” he blurted out. As considerate as it may seem, only Hamid knew that he was doing this more for himself than Hiba. The innocent Hamid—with a 12-year-old heart inside him—refused to believe that Ali would say no to his daughter for such a petty thing. But above him sat a 100-year-old brain. Having seen his father sweat it out every day, all day, he knew what was coming.

Abbu’s response, though, was rather unexpected. In fact, surprising—neither a yes, nor a no...

“What? Why?” Ali gave a startled response. He could notice Hamid staring at him intently, as if to test him, to judge him. It hurt to see the doubt lurking in his boy’s eyes, but then, Ali knew it better than anyone else: he was not wrong either.

“She says it’s hers because she made it,” Hamid told him. Trying hard to be a faithful lawyer to Hiba, his deep concern for her was betrayed by his understanding of Ali’s own deep concern for the family.

“Hmm. Fair enough.” Ali wondered if it was the trial that was making him nervous. He felt like a criminal being tried in court, fearing that his secret would lie open in no time. He whisked away the troubling thought and resumed the role of the confident, fair figure that he was, in his children’s eyes.

“Hiba is quite right in fact, isn’t she, Hamid?” Ali asked, pretending to be calm about it, as if it hardly made a difference. Perhaps it really did not: one toy less was not going to render them poorer or more distraught. But, in actuality, it was not about one toy; it was about Hiba’s whole life—a life destined to be underprivileged, and a life that had to learn to live without whims and fantasies.

Hamid nodded unremittingly, each nod sturdier than the last. Part of the test.

“So, shall I give it to her tomorrow?” he asked with one brow raised, the other arched low to not give away the astonishment. I should have trusted my father. He can be mean to anyone, but us.

“No! Why, wait for me to finish first,” Ali interrupted impatiently. “This is what you shall be conveying to Hiba from my side, won’t you, son?”

He went on only after Hamid had nodded a yes. “Right. Let Hiba earn what she wants, rather than simply get it. That’s what I want.”

Stunned, Hamid protested, “But, Abbu she is only...”

“I know she is young my son... she is my little girl. But this is not food or cloth that I’m denying her. Hiba can very well do without one toy, but if she chooses not to, fine, earn it by fair means. I can’t bear loss in the little money I make. I have five people to feed. You have to understand!”

For Hamid, that night was spent shifting uneasily in his side of the old wooden table he and Hiba slept on. Questions with no answers stormed his mind from all sides—leaving him both baffled and irritated. Abbu is not wrong. This is, after all, how he makes his living. But Hiba... are we both going to remain unlucky, forever? With a little jerk on his stomach, Hamid’s attention came a full circle back to the present. It was Hiba’s tiny hand. She slept like a carefree little baby—hands here, legs there. How lucky. The faint smile on his sister’s lips made him forget his worries and he closed his eyes. “Wonder what dream is making her smile so much,” was Hamid’s last question for the night.

***

The next morning, Hiba was told about Abbu’s deal. “This is it, sister. You have to earn that thing, Abbu said. And you know, the toy that you have chosen is a big one. Abbu would expect to make at least seventy rupees off it. And people, my dear girl, rarely are willing to spend that much on our toys. From my experience I tell you, they will readily buy a useless item for thousands of rupees from a big shop, but from us they expect to get anything and everything for no more than twenty-odd rupees.” He paused to breathe in some air. “There is a reason why we are poor,” he concluded.

He hoped, desperately, that Hiba would understand and drop the demand.

“Okay,” she replied, as if in deep meditation.

“Okay? So you won’t ask for it again, right?” Hamid’s sense of relief was barely explicable.

“Why not? Inshallah, I will make Abbu proud. Now do one thing, bhai, tell me which of these toys are more likely to be bought. I’ll go about from car to car when they are not moving. Somebody will definitely buy something,” she revealed her business-plan.

“Hiba, you’re not trying to understand. You’re small, sit down.” Hamid tried his best to take control of her, but excitement was at its peak.

“Umm, how about that one... Abbu was saying it is called Mickey. And that yellow teddy in red T-shirt... any idea what it is called? That one also, so cute. And yes! Give me all the little ones; the yellow duck, the ring, the fish. I’ll keep them all in one bag. That should be enough. Come on, bhai, fast!”

Before Hamid could know what was happening, off she was, knocking at every car-window. Unaware of the mountain of work she had cut out for herself, Hiba was a happy camper all through.

Over the next two days, neither the winter cold that froze her bare feet to numbness, nor could people’s shooing her away, succeed in taking Hiba’s spirits down. She knew perfectly who to lure: “the kids in those big cars that stopped at the red traffic signal”. Despite the childish reason behind it, her determination was enough to inspire Hamid; it moved him. She would sit there with him, impatiently observing the traffic signal turn from green to yellow to... red! And she had leaped out of the street in a flash of a second. He observed her with a smile half-amused and half-stunned. Despite all, she had managed to earn just forty rupees in two days. Hamid insisted that she make it seventy by adding some of what he earned—from the flimsy number of people who would stop by their shop, interested by a thing or two, hoping that their child back home would love it. Children in middle-class families still jump up with joy at the sight of such inexpensive plastic toys.

But Hiba flatly refused to “cheat Abbu”. At such times, Hamid sensed their father’s work ethics sprouting in her early.

Finally, as dusk set in on day three, Hiba came back with the smile Hamid had been longing to see. That smile of victory, of achievement, of pride: priceless. “How much is it?” he asked curiously.

“Seventy-five!” she smirked.

“Waah! But how?!” he said with his mouth wide open.

Hiba began: “The signal was going to turn green soon, when I saw an old lady trying to cross the road. She was old, bhaijaan, old she was. But I was eyeing this car that had a little boy staring blankly at one of my toys.” Hamid briefly noticed the yellow bear in red T-shirt, Pooh, missing from her bags. “I was sure he would ask his parents to buy it. But then this old lady, she was in the middle of the road by now. The cars would start moving again any time and I was scared... I wonder how anyone could let a woman of her age walk alone on such busy roads that run all day and night. I ran fast to help her cross the road quickly, within the few moments that were left. What an escape it was, bhai, what an escape!

“Before I could regret missing on the chance to make up for the lack of those thirty rupees, khala gently patted on my head and muttered some blessings. She offered to give me hundred rupees, saying that it is only a gift, nothing wrong or disrespectful. But how could I take it, bhaijaan, how could I take it. Abbu tells us so often, accept in life as much as you deserve, and you’ll never have to regret. But she insisted. Said she wanted to do something for me. I told her my story, about Abbu’s deal, and the remaining thirty rupees. She asked me how much the yellow bear costs. Wallah! I could hardly believe my luck. I told her it costs thirty-five but I could give it to her for twenty. But she happily bought it, said that her grandson would love it. She kissed me on my cheek and I came running to you to tell all this, bhai and...”

Before Hiba could conclude the long story or pause for a breath, Hamid hugged her dearly and whispered lovingly, “Hiba, oh, Hiba, you are so innocent. I love you. I love you my little sister.” *** After dinner, Hamid asked Hiba to accompany him in a conversation with Abbu. In front of her father, Hiba was usually not as frank and outspoken as she was otherwise. But today, Hamid thought, the ice between the father and the daughter was going to break, forever.

Ali listened to Hiba with utmost patience and delight. He did not speak a word all through. But then, Hiba did not let him; she did not pause anywhere, rarely looking up into her father’s eyes. Even though her eyes were persistently pointed onto the broken floor of their hut, the happiness in her voice was prominent. Her account did not miss out on any minor detail. Even if it did, by mistake or maybe simply due to a re-phrasal, Hamid made it a point to remind her of the way she had told it to him in the afternoon.

“... and then bhai also started crying. He hugged me and said nice things, Abbu, said that I’ll myself get to narrate the whole story in front of you. That scared me. But Abbu, did I do anything wrong? Are you angry?” she concluded with a funny question, more funny than ironic, considering the vastness of her deed, and her heart.

Ali simply got up, went into the only other room of the hut and came back with two objects in his hands. One was the bone of contention of the whole drama—Hiba’s favorite doll: pink, shining, charming, just like her. Another was an old-looking amulet, with a verse in Arabic printed over it. Ali placed the doll on the ground near her feet, and tied the amulet around her little neck. He gently held up the precious jewel, touched it on his left eye, then the right one, kissed it one final time and carefully placed it back on her chest, like the most priceless possession in this world.

In a very grave tone, Ali began to speak, “My Ammi’s last legacy. She was one of the lucky few of our family who was able to go for Hajj. I was small, just like you. We didn’t have much money, so only the grown-ups went. I had to stay back with a relative. When she came back, I ran up to her, asking if she had got anything for me. As if she had been to a mela,” he laughed, gently stroking Hiba’s little nose.

Then, “She gave me this. In Mecca, they met a fakir, just like so many of them. He didn’t even look at the others, your ammi’s father told me. The fakir said that the amulet was pious and deserved to be in the hands of the pious. He said my Ammi deserved it, for hers was a heart so clear and a life devoted to Allah. But, he warned her, the symbol should be passed on only to an honest human being.

“All through her life she kept it safe and precious, like an ocean’s pearl, a good luck charm. When she was dying, she handed it to me. She told me I could keep it, if I promised to maintain its purity. I have to pass this on, without being partial to my kin, to a pure soul, a sinless heart, a heart that lacks malice—Allah’s true child.”

By now, both Hiba and Hamid had been listening to their father without batting an eyelid. Apart from the cosmic aspect of the tale, it was the fact that he was getting emotional for the first time in front of them, that had them in awe. Ali gently placed his hands—one each on Hiba and Hamid’s head, looked up at the sky above as if seeking blessings for his children, and mumbled a little prayer. He leaned forward, facing Hiba, and said, “Today, I found that sinless soul in you, my little angel. Promise me; promise me that you would keep your grandma’s vow all through your life. Promise me that you won’t disappoint me, ever,” Ali said with an impatient longing.

“I promise, Abbu. But, what will I have to do, to fulfill this promise?” she asked very seriously.

Ali chuckled. A child after all.

“Nothing. My dear children, let the purity of your hearts guide you in life, forever. Stay who you are, as Allah has made you—kind, honest, innocent and sinless. And believe me when I say, you shall never find yourself unhappy or helpless. You know why? Because Allah loves you.” ***

Hamid had a sudden doubt. “And the doll… how did it come here? Wasn’t it at the shop?”

“No, I brought it home the day after I told you the deal. Even if she hadn’t been able to fulfill my task,” Ali bent towards Hamid and with half-a-smile lighting up his face, said, “it still was Hiba’s; because she made it and she liked it.”

***END***