On the Eve of Change

ON THE EVE OF CHANGE


I entered the office with my father in the evening. Although my father knew something of what he thought and called my shady ways, he was certainly unaware of the extent to which I was involved with the Change. In the street outside the office, a car stopped by us. A fellow Comrade in Change emerged from the car and accosted me. I was annoyed. I had many anxieties already in my mind, and upon that was this apparition of the Comrade.

“Sir, I want to tell you something”, said he, a trifle discomfited by the unconcealed annoyance in my face.

“Go on,” I said. In my preoccupation, I didn’t bother about my father. I’m sure he was bewildered at this all, to say the least. 

"Yasir has hit a snag; there’s trouble and he says he’s changed plans. He wants to meet us all today. Should I accept?” he said, constrained by my father’s presence. 

This change in plans worried me, for it meant possible imminent danger to us all. All I could do then was to nod at the Comrade to get rid of him, for I was in a foul mood. I was itching to perform this rather pressing duty for which I had come to the office. He departed and left us alone in the street.

My father and I entered the building. At the reception, I asked for the officer. We entered and found him sitting at his desk in a big, comfortable chair, playing with a small child, apparently his own. I beheld his visage. Small, sharp malevolent eyes and dark features complimented by a perpetual smirk  exactly the kind of face I hate. He did not invite us to sit down.

I started off a bit irritably: “My father here came to you yesterday to get this file signed from you, but I’m told you refused although every formality has been attended to. Now please sign it notwithstanding what happened yesterday.”

On his part, the man viewed me from head to foot and then glanced at my father.
He put his small child on the table and replied with a crooked smile, “I thought we had it all out yesterday. You yourself referred to my fee. Now why this sudden change?”

“For some reason my son disapproves of what we had agreed upon. He wants to discuss it again with you”, said my father looking apologetically at him.

“Go on, young man,” he replied.

I said: “Please sign this file. Get done with this work. Please don’t bother us.” I said this seriously and respectfully. My respectful demeanor belied my purpose, for he misunderstood it and in reply only proffered a laugh.

I became a bit hot. I opened my mouth to expostulate with him not to demand bribe. But it so happened that at that moment my eyes fell on the face of his cute child. He was a healthy though not fat child, his skin as white as milk and brow as smooth as silk. He had large black eyes and a pretty, small nose. How very poignant, I thought, for at that moment I admit my resolution faltered for the sake of this dear being. I became profoundly sad all of a sudden and my purpose and blood seemed to drain from me. I raised my grief-stricken eyes from the child to his father who instantly became suspicious. Out of boundless compassion, I raised my trembling hand and moved it slowly toward the child who had stopped playing with the small toy he was holding to stare deep in my face with his what I thought were ethereal eyes, so innocent were they. I touched his forehead and drew aside two locks of golden black hair that were scattered over it.

My eyes fell on his father again. I uttered in a thoroughly pleading voice, “Please” and added by my look but not by my words, “for the sake of this dear child.”

His face hardened and became abominable to me once again. “You don’t know us. You don’t know me. You are young and imprudent. Life will not pass like this.” And then looking at my father, “Don’t waste my time. Take him away. Your head is gray. You understand. Tell him not to threaten.”

His child, that pitiable mite of a child, had wrung pity of my heart. It was a feeling that had bewildered even me. But this brazen, threatening speech made me tear away his image. It was replaced by images of pale, small children, their straw-like thinness startling and heart-rending, scavenging heaps of refuse for bits of rotten food. I had once seen a begging boy, not more than ten, being hounded by motorcycle-riding policemen. 

“Please don’t take so much from me. Today I managed to only ten. Please, for God’s sake.”

They took every penny he possessed. They told him they were his real gods.

         
I made up my mind. I placed the file he had to sign on one side of the table before him. I took out my pistol from my jacket pocket and put it beside the file. “The choice is yours.” Instinctively, the man had the child in his grasp. My father was as if struck by lightning. He could barely gasp my name. I did not taunt or threaten the official. I just stared coldly into his startled, attentive face. Even the pistol had its trigger towards him and barrel towards me. Suddenly, his face showed worry and fear. I believe he had finally deciphered the firm resolution and purpose in my face. I seriously believe God saved him and made him sensible enough to save himself.  He took the file and did what was required, never moving his eyes from me all the time. He must have seen death in my face.

When he was done, I grabbed the file and my pistol, and walked out of the office. The receptionist paid us no heed, which was very well: he wouldn’t have known what to make of my father’s ashy face and my grim countenance that the Comrades tell me is so terrible. In the street I handed my father the file and bade him to return to home as fast as he could. I departed in the opposite direction to attend to other pressing matters.