Everything had changed in Shehzadpur. When Qureshi had left the village, it was merely an extended agricultural farm with a handful of huts inhabiting the place, without even a sign of development. Today, almost 15 years later, the serene village had transformed into a hustling town, engulfing all the neighboring villages. Sardaar Bishan Singh’s only ayurvedic clinic was taken over by acquisitive private doctors, who mostly worked with fake medical degrees. The roadside fritters’ carts now were shops that sold spicy burgers and noodles. There now stood a cinema hall built by the village contractor. Everything had changed in Shehzadpur, thought Qureshi.
It was 15 years ago that Qureshi had scammed a city dweller to buy a passport and a forged visa. He desperately wanted to escape the clutches of poverty. He was exhausted of watching his wife, Reshma Begum and five children sleep hungry every night. His four sons, Abdul, Karim, Javed and Raza along with his only daughter Hayaat, were shrinking of starvation every single day. There was no means of earning a livelihood. Farming for the landowner didn’t even provide for a week’s food, let alone one whole month. On somedays, like the birthdays of his children, Qureshi resorted to repairing buses of Punjab Roadways in order to purchase anything that would make for a celebration at his home. In the scorching heat of Punjab, he laid down under the buses, bruising and blackening his skin only to buy some chicken or Halwa for his family. Under these circumstances, survival seemed to be a difficult feat to achieve. Therefore, failing to find a dignified way of life in Shehzadpur, Qureshi escaped to the Middle East. His friend Rehmaan, who had been settled there for decades now, had assured him the job of a security guard at one of the mansions in Saudi Arabia.
Leaving behind his family for an unsettling span of time was not easy, especially considering that all of them meant more than his own life to him. It was indeed for them that he was leaving. With his heart soaring with pain, Qureshi left to play cards with his destiny, to see who wins between his fate and him. A man as well built and tall as him, was best suited to take care of Khwaab, the mansion where an old couple, the Sayyeds lived. Jamaal Sayyed was over 80 years of age and his wife was nearly 75. They both were partially paralyzed due to an accident where they had lost their only daughter. It was a lonely house. The husband and wife, barely spoke to each other and it was only Qureshi who broke the deafening silence of the house by narrating the intriguing stories of India to the couple. They began enjoying his company. But moreover, they began trusting him. For they had seen, in spite of being aware of their weak and incapable bodies, Qureshi never misused his freedom. He was mighty, yet loyal. He devoted his time in taking care of the mansion as if it were his own house. He went beyond his assigned duties of a guard and ended up making chicken stew for the couple on many winter nights. In return, he was able to send a hefty amount to his family, at the end of every month. Years went by. After the death of his wife, Mr. Sayyed became bed stricken. He lost all his strength and now completely depended on Qureshi for something even as small as holding a spoon. Without an heir for his manganous wealth, Mr. Sayyed gave everything away to Qureshi before finally passing away to a fatal case of pneumonia. Qureshi was now the possessor of 10 crore rupees besides the mansion, Khwaab and The Sayyed Chemicals in Saudi. He now wasn’t just a man who had fled from Punjab in search of some money, he was now Dawood Qureshi. The Dawood Qureshi.
After he arrived back in Shehzadpur, he was a new man. His aura had transformed into a magnet that could attract anybody who met him. People were in awe of him , looking for the reason behind his unbelievable success. There were all sorts of conjectures. Some said he had murdered a wealthy couple in Saudi to steal their money while some said he had married a lonely rich woman back in the Middle East. But Dawood shut every blabber with the vigor of his money. He indulged in limitless charities, sent his boys away to Saudi for them to take care of the Sayyed Chemicals and Khwaab, got his daughter married in Dubai and began building his own palace in Shehzadpur. In no time, the barren lane of his house was bought by his men. The lane was then covered with four magnificently royal bungalows that Dawood built, all adjacent to one another. By the side of these gigantic red palaces, was a bank branch that Qureshi bought, bribing some officials. Right opposite the central bungalow, Qureshi built a mosque. A mosque so beautiful that it could make your eyes gape endlessly at it, it could make you standstill in sheer amazement and it could bring you unimaginable placidity. With expensive glasswork and a colorful fountain in the center, the mosque had a gorgeous verandah where small children attended their everyday madrassa classes. Exactly behind his bungalows, were vast fields of mustard, where tiny yellow flowers bloomed and where life also lived.
Qureshi was 65 years old by this time. His limbs began growing weaker, his shoulders stooped and his heart turned older, inviting multiple chronic diseases. But Qureshi wouldn’t stop. There was still so much to do. Only now he finally had the authority where people bowed at his glimpse, his orders were followed swiftly and he ruled. He ruled Shehzadpur. It was then that he made his mind to enter politics to become Dawood, the leader. He won elections one after the other and multiplied his wealth beyond limits. The entire Punjab shook with wonder when Qureshi got his youngest son married. The bride was landed from a chopper at Shehzadpur’s school ground. The magic didn’t cease there, thousands of villagers gathers to catch a glimpse of the diamond laden young bride from Dubai, whose lehenga was furnished with jewels from across the globe. This was Dawood Qureshi’s supremacy.
The next few years for the family were blissful when Sana, the youngest and the only daughter in law who was living with them, gave birth to a beautiful baby girl. Qureshi knew no boundaries of happiness and began spending more time at home, watching his granddaughter, Firdaus grow. He refused to send her to the local school, blaming the wild boys of the town and insisted that her learning must curtail to her 4’o clock madrassa classes. When his power began slipping from his hands and his party was about to lose the elections, now, 70 years old, Qureshi bought victory for 5 crore rupees in cash. Everybody went quiet knowing that the tiger was still not old and knew how to still hold his power. But in truth, the tiger had gone weak, so much so, that now he couldn’t be out of his house for very long. Besides his heart, now his lungs too were losing their strength. Firdaus, the tiny chubby girl with her pink cheeks had stopped complaining of not being able to go to school. She felt sorry for her old grandfather’s inability to even retaliate now.
One night before going to sleep, Qureshi informed his wife Reshma about a journalist’s visit, scheduled for the next day. He was ecstatic and with childlike enthusiasm told her that he was being interviewed by this young journalist from Chandigarh’s magazine. “She will do a lifetime feature on me.” He told Reshma Begum. Gulping a handful of pills for keeping his body alive, Qureshi went to sleep. Next morning rose with a different glow. The sun was shining brighter but it wasn’t hot. The breeze was cold and Reshma had already instructed the servants to prepare for the Dawaat. It was her husband’s big day and she was spot on as his supporter, as his wife. Firdaus ran to her grandfather’s room with a cup of tea like she did every day. But Qureshi won’t even move in spite of her joyous shrieks. He laid still as a stone. “Dadijaan, dadajaan won’t wake up!” And Qureshi just won’t move. He was in the lap of eternal sleep.
The town stopped that day, all shops shut and everybody gathered outside the Qureshi lane that began with a huge hoarding that read ‘You are welcome to The Qureshi Palace’. The journalist’s car arrived, brushing the crowd away. The young lady from the city, cluelessly, walked in the house and realized what had happened. Firdaus and Sana were inconsolable over Qureshi’s death. But Reshma didn’t bat an eyelid. Just when the journalist was preparing to leave, Reshma signaled her to wait and said, “Welcome to the Qureshi Palace. Please have a seat and enjoy your sherbet. You have come to write about my husband, Mr. Qureshi. He conquered everything he set his eye at and this feature was something, his heart beamed for. His final desire will not go unfulfilled. You have come to feature the tiger; his tigress will narrate his tale to you. Sana, call the party workers and tell them the 5-crore deal to win the elections won’t go in vain. Reshma Begum is ready to hold her husband’s chair. And Sana, send our men to the town school and register my Firdaus’s name. She will go to school from tomorrow. Nobody can dare to even set an eye on a girl from The Qureshi Palace. Let that be known.”
