The Deal by Nazia Kamali, cold coffee

In the air-conditioned cavity of the Blue Stars café at the GMS Road of Dehradun, Shahid sat stiff, staring at the two contracts placed before him. His hand was half outstretched to pick a cinnamon roll when the buyer presented her proposition. Shahid’s fingers had curled back into a fist that dropped in his lap as his mouth turned sour.

Ms Ray, the buyer, tapped her fingers on the table. “What do you say?” Her eyebrows stretched like a quiver ready to shoot.

Shahid bit his lower lip.

Two girls on their right clicked pictures with a bun topped with a generous layer of velvety blueberry cake. The girl on the table in front of them, hardly in her twenties, giggled as her partner fed her a taco with his hands. The server, wearing a black apron with the logo of the café, over a red t-shirt and blue jeans, weaved her way to the counter.

“Let me know what you decide.” Ms Ray instructed and left.

Developing a mobile application that detects and announces objects in front of the mobile’s camera to aid the movement of individuals with visual impairments was Shahid’s dream. He had the blueprint of the application for two years before Naved, a high-school friend, offered his support. They discussed use-case scenarios, wrote code snippets in Python, and tested the program's output on virtual machines for several months before preparing the proposal to sell the application. They lacked the financial resources to launch it on their own, and no investor was interested in a collaboration.

How could Ms Ray think he would agree to such a scandalous suggestion?

Naved was the one who brought the buyer. When Shahid told him that he could not see Ms Ray alone, Naved refused to listen to any excuse.

“Since when have you started doubting yourself?” He had dismissed Shahid’s fears with the wave of a hand. “You were always the smarter one.”

“I’m,” Shahid had slumped deeper into the antique, wrought-iron garden chair at Naved’s palatial house, “I’m just wondering if they’ll agree to deal with me. You are the man they want.”

The glasses of sweet, beige coloured, almond milk that Naved’s mother always prepared when Shahid visited stood on the table between them. Naved handed one to Shahid and took a few mouthfuls from his before speaking, “They want to meet the developer of the application, and you know everything there is to tell. Just be there at four.”

Ms Ray had no idea what she was asking of him.

The stuffy bus ride on the cruel June day covered Shahid in a slick of dust. He took off his clothes and stood under the shower. The water in the overhead tank of the building was boiling even at six in the evening. Shahid cursed and came out.

Ms Ray had given him two days to mull over the offer – cut Naved out, sell the application as the sole owner, and enjoy all the glory that comes when it succeeds. In return, she wanted him to reduce the price by thirty per cent. “You’ll still get more than your original share, and we’ll take care of the legalities, including any copyright claims filed by your partner.”

She had winked and presented him with two agreements – one listed both Shahid and Naved as developers, while the other had only Shahid’s name printed on it. “All you have to do is change a few lines of code here and there to make the program structure different. I’m sure it's easy for someone of your calibre.”

Eyeing him, she smiled in a way that made Shahid’s lunch curdle in his stomach. “You have both worked hard on the project, but your partner keeps using I instead of we,” she emphasised the I and we. “It’s time you get the credit that you deserve.”

Suffocated by the thoughts, Shahid opened the only window of the apartment. The slanting rays of streaming sunlight highlighted the splotches of dal and gravy on the floor that he had been too busy to wipe.

The bottle of Lysol that Shahid fetched from the bathroom cabinet was almost empty. He trickled a few droplets into the bucket half full of water, dipped a rag, and scrubbed the floor. Dip and scrub, dip and scrub, he worked through the length of the apartment.

Rhea, his ex-girlfriend, always reminded him to clean the place before it started resembling a chicken coop. “My bathroom is cleaner than your bedroom. Do something about it.” She would shout and rummage through the pile of clothes on the floor at the foot of the bed, sniffing his T-shirts. “Wash them today if you want to come anywhere near me.”

When she asked him to meet her at Starbucks last Friday, he thought she wanted to make another reel. Being a mildly successful food influencer with 5.2 K followers on Instagram, she always went to aesthetically appealing places. For the first time, Shahid didn’t mind paying the exorbitant amount for a cup of coffee that they could drink at a cheaper price at any other place. He was going to be rich soon, but before he could share the news, she blurted, “This is not working anymore.”

“What is not working?”

“You, me, us.” She sounded well-rehearsed.

Shahid’s heart galloped like a racehorse. “You don’t really mean that.” He wiped the tiny beads of sweat around his lips.

“Yes, I do.” She looked straight into his eyes.

“Why?”

“Because life is too short to waste.” She checked something on her mobile phone.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Rhea typed on her phone before responding, “What I mean is, you’ll always be Naved’s sidekick.”

Bile rose in Shahid’s throat.

“I waited and waited for you to outgrow him, but he is like the crutch you can’t walk without.”

Shahid wanted to dissolve in thin air.

“Consider this advice as my parting gift,” Rhea picked up her bag, “learn to take charge or you’ll never amount to anything.”

The bells attached to the strap of the handbag jingled on her way out.

The floor became as clean as one with cracked, faded tiles can be. Shahid threw the dirty water in the drain and washed the rag before sitting on the second-hand turtle green cushioned chair he bought from a mouldy shop at Indira market.

Sweat dripped down his spine as Shahid rested his back and closed his eyes. The chair’s meagre cushion felt rough and thin. He needed to buy a more comfortable one. He also needed to buy a powerful laptop – one with a faster GPU and bigger RAM, and his apartment needed a makeover to allow him to receive respected visitors. And to meet those people, he had to buy crisp clothes and shiny shoes – the ones he had now did not create the impression he wanted to make on people.

Developing one application was not going to suffice. He needed more work, and for that, he needed people to know what he was capable of.

If he sold the application with Naved, he would have enough to pay his debts and start a new life, but if he sold it alone, no one would dare tell him that he would amount to nothing. No one will look at him as someone’s second. Instead, he will become the man who rose from the ashes and conquered the world. The deal will seal the mouths of all those who questioned his capabilities. Shahid Shirazi is not the little, ugly frog destined to die in a small, discarded well. He is the shark who surpasses his strongest opponent in one strike.

The application is his brainchild. He would have completed it without Naved. He might have taken longer, but he would have definitely completed it without any help.

Sure, Naved supplied his few cents, giving his opinions and checking the codes occasionally, but Shahid was the one who did all the legwork – he created the master plan, he drew the flowchart for decision-making, and drafted the step-by-step algorithm. He was the one who spent sleepless nights, staring at his laptop screen, pushing one more line of code to refine the application while Naved attended fancy conferences in foreign lands.

Shahid opened his eyes. The fan was gyrating with lethargy. His vest, almost wet with sweat, clung to his chest. The air conditioning stopped working three weeks ago. Repairing it was tantamount to ruining the entire monthly budget. Until when was he supposed to live like a nameless beggar?

Deep breaths, Shahid, deep breaths, he commands himself. Think clearly.

He was the only one who can change his own life.

The contracts were still in his backpack. Shahid took out the one with both their names.

“Hi, Naved.” “What’s up, genius?” “How is the mobile application coming along, scientist?”

Shahid’s mind swirled with the words of all those who ignored him whenever he walked with Naved.

“No,” he seethed under his breath.

“No,” he cried out loud.

“No,” he tore the contract into bits.

By the time the news would reach Naved, Shahid would be swimming in money and fame.

About the author

Nazia is a writer based in Dehradun. Her novella Multicoloured Muffler was published in the Rize Novella Anthology by Running Wild Press. Her shorter works can be found in magazines such as The Tint, FemAsia, Caustic Frolic, Rigorous, Café Lit, Author Publish Magazine, Juste Literary, and 50-Word Story. https://www.instagram.com/naziak_writes/.

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

The Girl With The Midas Touch

 

by Nazia Kamali

a mug of hot chocolate

Aaram Bano came to Dehradun after seventeen long years to attend her brother Jamal’s granddaughter’s wedding, hoping to get a chance to meet the extended family after a long time. The house she had spent her childhood in had changed a lot. An additional storey comprising four bedrooms, a long veranda, and several round pillars whose history was unknown to her had come up. The open courtyard where she used to play had turned into a parlour. The colour of the walls had changed and so had the shapes and sizes of several of its residents.

Aaram loved the gathering. She met several old friends and cousins, and together they reminisced about their childhood. She sang and played dholki with the girls and laughed out loud. However, the noise that the younger ones made while dancing to the beats of the latest rock music they played on a full-throated speaker became unbearable after some time. So, giving some trouble to her wobbly knees, she went out of the house in search of a few seconds of peace.

Taking small, steady steps, Aaram walked, observing the changes in the neighbourhood. Buildings, houses, and complexes had come up everywhere, leaving hardly any room for air. New families had shifted to the area. The old landmarks etched so clearly in her memory were nowhere to be found. Most of the previous inhabitants had sold their houses and left. The shops that lined the lanes along which she ran up and down were replaced by modern outlets and convenience stores.

It used to be such a beautiful and spacious locality, she thought.

Aaram Bano hobbled a little further to find the ground where she played with her friends, but it was gone; vanished in the new concrete jungle that had cropped up in the modern times.

Dejected at the loss of her favourite place, she entered the miniscule replica of the playground built around the corner and sat on one of the benches lining its perimeter. There were hardly any trees. Few small swings stood at some distance. At half-past three, the place was almost empty. The late autumn afternoon felt pleasant. Aaram let out an audible breath and peered around.

When she was young, everything looked big and new to her inexperienced eyes. Very few people lived in the neighbourhood. The houses were huge and interspersed. A vast expanse of land was left open after the last one.

Gigantic trees of Mango, Peepal, and Lychee filled the open landscape. A small stream gurgled at its other end.

Women of all ages gathered there for household activities; drying chilies and peppers, making pickles, planning festivities. They would gather in groups and discuss what happened in which household - who was getting married to whom, who disobeyed his parents and ran away from his responsibilities, who spent all the money in vain and who made the most.

Aaram had spent countless hours in that ground. Her happiest memories of childhood were from that place. She and her friends would play all sorts of games – hopscotch, hide and seek, and blind man’s bluff. Sometimes the girls would climb high up on the trees and hide, giggling until someone’s mother roared at them to come down. They had no gadgets, no fancy toys, and no television sets to glue in front of yet; their hearts were content.

The quiet in the place was welcoming. Aaram closed her eyes and rested her back as the brisk breeze transported her back to the time when she was one hell of a runner. No one in the entire neighbourhood could defeat her until Nimra came along - three years her junior and already as tall as her at the age of ten.

That girl broke every rule set upon them by the elders. Her unkempt, long hair, hung loose instead of being tied up in tight plaits like the rest of them. Though she wore salwar kameez and slippers like everyone else, most of the time, her slippers were of different colours or sizes as if she had left home in a hurry and wore anything she found. She rubbed fruits that fell from the trees upon her kameez and ate them without washing. When any older girl scolded her for the deed, she stuck out her tongue in defiance. She feared no one and usually played alone, starting one game after the other spontaneously - now she is climbing the tree, and just a second later, she jumped into the stream, splashing water all around. There was nothing predictable about her except the fact that she was a winner.

Running was the most popular sport with girls their age. They had to run and touch the Peepal tree standing at one end of the ground and then return to the starting point. Chatty as she was, Nimra always started late, being busy talking with a friend; and was often last to touch the tree. However, she never finished second. Every time Aaram smiled inwardly when Nimra reached the tree after her, the girl would beat all others and win. She was swift as an arrow and dashed past her competitors without a moment’s notice.

Aaram began loathing her. There was no minute, no second when she did not hate the girl. Nimra, on the other hand, was oblivious to all that hatred and jealousy. She had no desire to please anyone. An air of nonchalance surrounded her at all times. She never followed the herd of girls; instead, she came and went all around the neighbourhood as she liked. Aaram had often seen her play all by herself in the middle of summer afternoons when the sun shone mightily. She hated Nimra’s guts and yet admired the ease with which she carried herself.

As they grew up from little girls to young teenagers, everything that Nimra touched turned into gold. Every person she met fell in love with her.

Nimra became tall and thin with full lips and big brown eyes that had a language of their own, while Aaram remained short and carried a tadpole belly. There was nothing extraordinary about her looks, and every time she looked at Nimra, she wished for something bad to befall her. Whenever the girl dressed herself up for any occasion, it became impossible for people to tear their eyes away from her. Aaram hated the attention they paid to her.

Wherever there was a gathering in the neighbourhood, her name echoed.

So young and yet so smart.

Does math far beyond her age.

Have you seen the bed sheet she embroidered recently?? So beautiful. Such exquisite design.

I wonder how a girl her age is able to manage such precision.

Aaram's life became an unending competition with a girl who didn't even bother to enter into one with her. She tried doing everything that Nimra was praised for - she studied her elder brother’s book and painted a bunch of flowers on the cushion covers, she imitated her laughter and nonchalance during ceremonies but nothing seemed to work, or maybe it did but to Aaram, it was never as good as her adversary.

She spent hours and hours going over detailed plans to defeat Nimra, dotting every ‘i’ and crossing every‘t’ meticulously - how she would run with all her might in the next race and beat Nimra, or how she would embroider an elaborate and intricate pattern on one of the bed sheets to impress every woman in the neighbourhood. She became obsessed with the idea of excelling, of going far and beyond to claim victory over the girl.

And then came Sarmad.

The local doctor's son, who studied in Delhi, returned one summer after passing out of high school. Aaram saw him from the terrace of her house as he walked with long confident strides on the road outside. It was love at first sight. His glorious aura captivated her, and the entire summer, she could see nothing but Sarmad all around. Every corner she looked, she saw him - standing, sitting, smiling, laughing, talking, eating, and walking. He had captured her senses until one day when the news of his elopement with Nimra reached her ears.

Aaram's insides were set on fire. That girl was bad news since day one. She had stolen everything from her, everything. A blanket of hatred enveloped her as she ran away, hiding tears of dejection.

Soon she married and moved to Saharanpur. Whenever she came to see her parents, Aaram asked after Nimra, and to her dismay, there was always something good going on in her life – Sarmad came back and apologised to his parents who accepted their union after all. He went to a medical school. Their firstborn was a son. They had four children together. Sarmad named his clinic after Nimra.

She would listen to everything and think that all this would have been hers had that girl not come in between. It took Aaram decades to forgo that feeling.

***

For the past several years, she hadn't thought about Nimra at all. It was only after reaching Dehradun, that she remembered the girl with long unkempt hair and big brown eyes. Upon asking, she was told, that Nimra passed away seven years ago. Sarmad followed soon after. A tinge of hatred showed itself in Aaram's eyes as she imagined them together in the heavens. The girl's Midas touch worked even in death. She rested in the hereafter not alone but with the love of her life.

Now, as she sat on the bench and recalled everything and then she realised that she would never see Nimra again, never hear her voice. The girl did not breathe anymore. She didn’t share the sun and the moon with her any longer....

Despite sun still being there in the sky, the air felt chilly, she rubbed the nape of her neck and then crossed her arms tightly. A feeling of emptiness seemed to be closing in from all sides. A loud gasp escaped her mouth.

Aaram suddenly longed for her rival - to run up to the aging peepal tree and lose to her in the race once again, to see her play those spontaneous games and never bother to include others. She longed for the touch of her warm hands and the smile on her soft baby-like face that never failed to enrich those oval eyes of hers. Aaram wished to see her outdo everyone else by her wit and intelligence one more time.

Tears flowed from her eyes onto her cheek, making their way to her chin and hence the lap as she realised after seventy long years that she had never hated the girl.