Shatranj: A Game of Life

Chapter 2

It was the day of Mahmood's 15th birthday, after a party with cake, chips and soft drinks that I first found out that Mahmood had started smoking. Ammi had bought a Spiderman cake for Mahmood from Kitchen Cuisine. Even though we had grown out of that age group where we adored comic book heroes, Ammi still thought that such cakes were popular. On my birthday, she had gotten a Superman cake made for me. Dozens of tables with folding chairs had been set up in the garden. By late evening, the house was packed with Mahmood's school friends, their parents and our relatives. Ammi had only invited Mahmood's classmates to the party, boys richer than us whose fathers drove around in BMW's, whose mothers spent the day shopping in Zamzama's many boutiques and whose parents spent long weekends in Dubai. Ammi wanted us to hang out with them rather than the neighborhood kids because she thought they were starting to be a bad influence on us and also because it became easier for her to make friends at the weekend get-together's my parents were invited too. My father, Abba was apathetic to these social aspirations of my mother. He thought that most of the other fathers were the stuck up corporate types who had spent their lives in lavishly decorated offices with artificial light and climate control. Abba on the other hand had reached where he was through hard work, perseverance and luck. My Dada, Abba's father had passed away from a heart attack when Abba was only 10 and so he had to drop out of school to support his family. Abba had tried his hands at odd jobs, from plumbing to carpentry but had left them because of the low wages. He had even tried to get enlisted into the Pakistan Army but was let go after a year because he was asthmatic. Abba got his lucky break when a man, Iqbal, whom he worked with in a garment factory started his own uniform business. He needed a partner and seeing that Abba was hard working and held promise, invited him to join. He was not to be disappointed. Ammi had told us that Iqbal Uncle had told her that Abba spent countless hours on hard school benches, waiting to meet obnoxious principals to convince them to let him be the sole supplier of their school uniforms. Abba dressed simple and spoke softly but his honest and upright attitude almost always paid off. The partnership became stronger and the business flourished, going from serving one school in Nazimabad to all the schools in the greater Karachi area. We were well off but Abba had never forgotten his humble beginnings. He put up with those he met at social functions because he had come across two of his biggest clients that way. The cake was soon brought out. Everyone sang Happy Birthday and Mahmood blew out the candles. After many rounds of Coke and pieces of chocolate cake later, the guest started leaving. A little before sunset when all the guests had left, Mahmood and I made our way down East Avenue to the empty plot. We could see Asad, Adil, Shahriyar, Mohsin and his little brother, Ahsan, all standing there waiting for us. "Happy birthday, man", each of them yelled out to Mahmood as they hugged him.
"Thanks, yaar". Mahmood said, a large smile plastered on his face.
I felt happy and I felt happy for Mahmood. Mahmood was my stepbrother but we had always regarded each other as real brothers. He was four years older than me, his mother having passed away when he was born. We grew up like brothers, no difference being shown, no preference being given between both of us. My father had married late in life. Knowing that he could not support a wife, let alone a family on his pittance of a factory worker's salary, he had married only after his uniform business had taken off.
His first wife was a second cousin, an uncle's daughter and Allah had blessed them with a son in their second year of marriage. My father's name was Zulqarnain, from that famous Quran story about the conqueror who had conquered lands that stretched from east to west. Abba had wanted to name his sons after Muslim legends as well. So he had named his first born Mahmood, after the great Muslim Sultan, Mahmood of Ghazni. Mahmood's mother had died from a hemorrhage soon after his birth. My father had raised Mahmood all by himself until he met my mother, Iqbal Uncle's niece. They courted for a year, were married the next and I was born a year after that. They had named me Qasim after the Arab conqueror, Muhammad bin Qasim who conquered Sindh and Punjab and had started the Islamic rule in the Indian subcontinent.
All us friends sat in a circle, the streetlight far away providing enough light for us to see each other's faces. A tennis ball that Adil had brought with him was tossed between us, creating what I liked to believe was an imaginary web of friendship. I got caught up in conversation about school with Ahsan who turned out to be just a few months younger than me. Ten minutes later, it was the activity in the corner that caught my interest. I could see that Mahmood and Asad were rummaging through a Marlboro packet. Mahmood pulled a cigarette out while Asad used his father's lighter to light it up. Two puffs, lots of coughing and Mahmood had the entire circle's attention. He was asthmatic, so the wheezing started. Asad got up and started thumping him on the back. I sat there, not knowing what to do. My brother was smoking, despite all that Abba had told us about the perils of smoking and its deadly effects. Abba had especially warned Mahmood since he had a bad case of asthma. I remember that we had once seen an anti-smoking commercial on PTV that featured Wasim Akram telling two youngsters that the reason he was so fit was because he didn't smoke. Plus, Wasim Akram was Mahmood's hero and with Abba's stern warning, I thought it would make made a difference. I guess not.