I am a bastard. Not the kind of introductory line that would suit your refined taste and society, I know but such is truth. I am a bastard and literally so. What I mean is that my father, whoever and wherever he is, fucked Henna and conveniently forgot that the act could sometimes result in creating another disinterested life in a cursed womb.
Henna, by the way is my mother or the way I like to put it, my ‘mother’s’ name. Well, she couldn’t care less. I don’t even know if she can put a definite finger on a man and tell me, “He is your father!!”...No... “He was the one who fucked me to cause you”. But she can’t. And she won’t either. She does not talk to me. And I do not give it too much thought myself. I find it utterly amusing sometimes and even let out an occasional giggle when I think of Henna’s patient wait as her tummy swelled up and her body eventually puked me out. Why did she even bother?
So, now you know, I am a bastard and this is my life. Or death??? Whatever is the opposite of the word ‘life’ because mine is not the classic case of living anyway.
If it offends your otherwise sensitive selves, I have a name too. And a story behind that as well, like almost everything. You have a faint idea that Henna is probably not very crazy about me. Her brother, Asif or ‘Cutting’ as he is known around here, of all people took pity on me and gave me the occasional kind stares and looked out for me now and then.
I do have a name like most of you, in case you were wondering. I have Cutting to blame for the same. He named me Junaid after the first man he killed. He got 700 rupees for the job. “Junna, I worked hard for that money. Those seven hundred-rupee notes made me feel worthwhile for the first time ever,” Cutting once told me. My little moment of pride that was as I thought at least I reminded someone of self worth.
But not many call me by that name. It does sadden me; one of those very few things that do. I like the sound of it. “JOO-NAYY-ED!” I’d reply the very first time someone calls me by that name. Otherwise I tend to ignore. Unlike Cutting, I do not obviously have anything that ‘reminds me of self worth’.
Like that one time, this fellow I bought my hash from called out, “Oi, you motherfucker! You don’t need any maal today?” I ignored. He was probably referring to my father. Quite literally so, he was the one that noun suited best.
Now, don’t think all Junaid is about are those sad, dark and clichéd things the streets are made famous for by the movies. Oh! I am happy, more often than you’d know. Ignore the illegitimate bit, the rant of ‘lacking self worth’ and some such, I am happy.
Did I tell you about Harish? The only one besides Cutting who is allowed to call me Junna. I taught him to roll the perfect joint and make the best roaches out of cigarette packs. And only Harish has access to my best hash. I enjoy listening to him as he yaps endlessly about his girlfriend, he so loves and the school, he so hates.
I once even wore his old uniform and sneaked into his school with him. His girlfriend is an idiot and his school does not teach anything I could teach its students in a day.
Harish’s father is your regular office going guy who usually has this big grin on his face each time he pays our ‘home’ a visit. I leave to smoke up at the temple when he does. It does not take a genius to know what Harish’s father and Henna are up to. He forks out some money to me as well with his signature grin. So Harish’s father keeps me happy as well. “Bastard, you are one expensive family,” he often says. Bastard? Of course!
There is one more thing you probably do not know about this bastard. He is a dead bastard. No, really! Henna took that bottle of Old Monks once and smashed it on my head. God knows why! The last thing I remember as I hit the floor was hearing her say, “What a waste of good rum!”
I think Cutting wept and so did Harish. At least I hope they did!
