My Friend Part 1

I still remember the day Rashed first came to school. The class had just started. Sir had opened his register to take the roll when a boy came and stood at the door. There was a dripping wet paper in his left hand. He held it carefully and looked into the class. He looked as if he had lost a goat or something and was looking for it inside the room. After standing there for a while he finally decided to come in. Majid Sir looked at him with a frown and said, "Hey, who are you? What do you want?"

He didn't reply but put the paper on Sir's table and wiped his hands on his pants. Slightly surprised, Sir asked, "What's this?"

"A paper."

"I can see that. What paper is it?"

"I don't know." He glanced vaguely at the class. "The office gave it to me."

Sir briefly looked the paper over. "An admission paper? You want to get admitted to this class?"

"I don't know."

"What do you mean by you don't know?" Sir scolded, "How did this get so wet?"

"It fell in the drain."

"The drain?" Sir made a face and pulled his hand away.

"It's not dirty Sir - I washed it."

"You washed it?" Sir looked at the boy in surprise. After looking at him like this for a little while he asked, "What's your name?"

"Laddul."

"Laddu?"

The whole class burst into laughter. Sir growled, "Quiet! Absolutely quiet!" Once we had quieted down, Majid Sir asked the boy again, "What's your real name?"

"I don't have one."

"You don't have a real name?"

"No."

"Your name is just Laddu?"

The boy nodded his head.

"Nothing before or after that?"

"No."

Sir looked at the boy again in surprise. Then he said, "Can just Laddu be anybody's name?"

"No," Laddu replied thoughtfully.

"Then?"

"Put something else with it."

"Put something else with it?"

"Yes."

"What should I put with it? Muhammed? Laddu Muhammed?"

"All right," the boy agreed.

Sir regarded the boy with amazement, then suddenly slapped the table and growled, "Never! No one in my class can go by the name Laddu Muhammed. You tell your father to give you a real name."

The boy scratched his head and said, "There's no use, Sir."

"Why not?"

"Dad won't give me a name."

"Why won't he?"

"He's too lazy. Besides, he's kind of crazy. I have a brother who doesn't have a full name either."

"What's his name?"

"Chomchom2."

Sir shouted at us as we all roared with laughter again. "Quiet! Be quiet! Or I'll bash your heads in."

After we had stopped laughing, Sir looked at the boy and said, "Your mother-"

"I don't have a mother."

"Oh." Sir suddenly became quiet. He tapped on the table for a while then said, "Then should I give you a real name?"

The boy brightened. "All right."

Majid Sir studied the boy for a few minutes then said, "Okay then, you tell your father that tomorrow you will be given a new name."

"All right."

Then Sir looked at us and announced, "Tomorrow each of you write down and bring a nice name. Will you remember to do that?"

We nodded. We would remember.

After Sir left we went to size the boy up. Whenever a new boy came to class he had to be sized up. Who knew, maybe someone would come who was such a good student that he would always get ninety or ninety- five out of one hundred in all the subjects and make our lives miserable - as Ashraf did. Or maybe the new boy's father would turn out to be the District Magistrate, and if we beat him up for some reason, his father would send police to get us the way Masum's father did. Or maybe he'd be somebody who was such a bully that he'd absolutely eat us alive- like Kader did. You can't tell anything from before. So the boy needed to be sized up.

I went to him and asked, "Are you going to be first in the exams?"

The boy made a face and said, "Are you crazy?"

"Then what'll you be?"

"I'll fail. In all the subjects."

"In all the subjects?"

"Yeah."

Dilip said worriedly, "How do you know from before?"

"What's not to know? Why do you think I came to school?"

"To fail?"

"Yeah. If I fail two years in a row, I won't ever have to study again. Dad said so."

Fazlu asked wide-eyed, "You won't ever have to study again?"

"No."

We looked at one another. Fazlu's eyes narrowed in jealousy, he said, "If you fail won't your father beat you up?"

The boy chuckled and said, "My father never beats me up. He's sort of crazy you know."

"What does he do?"

"He talks and tells stories. Discusses things."

"With you?"

"Yeah."

"What does he talk about?"

"Usually politics."

"Politics!" We were astonished. What was this kid saying? His father discussed politics with him.

I asked in surprise, "Do you understand discussions about politics?"

"Why not? What's not to understand?"

Written by Mohammad Zafar Iqbal

(to be continue)