The end of the first great war saw the British Empire stronger than ever. To commemorate its victory over its foes and in memory of all those from India that had fallen fighting a war they didn't start, fighting for an empire they didn't support, and fighting against an enemy they didn't know, the British ordered a 42 meters tall monument to be erected in the middle of the city of Delhi that they had sacked almost a century ago. It was whispered for quite a while during the war that the British were seriously contemplating on rewarding the subcontinent after the war for its all its sacrifices, sweat, and blood it had shattered for the Empire. It turned out, in the end, to be another trick of the gora that they had cunningly utilised to gather the support of the Indian regiments in its fight against the German and the Ottomans. Such was the level of the deceit that the Indian regiments felt that they promised never to take part in any of the many militaristic affairs of the British Empire ever again.
In Lyallpur, however, little had changed. The emptiness and the solitude of the dusty town had prevailed in its own sense and so had the Keamari's butcher shop to everyone's surprise. Shahmir celebrated his tenth amidst the grand celebrations of victory of the British Empire that lasted for three months throughout the Empire. The celebrations brought in much-needed business for Dost Mohammad as the last two years of the war had dried up almost all the demand for small meat. At one point Dost Mohammad had even thought of shutting down the family business and opening up vegetable and fruit stall for vegetables and fruit were the only edibles a common man could any longer afford, but the idea was shunned by his blinded father who protested that all Dost Mohammad had to do was wait out the war. Dost Mohammad conceded to his father's wishes, but as a consequence, the Keamaris were forced to save up every single paisa that they could. During this time, Shahmir, now grown, found a job at a local bookstore under the care of an old man by the name of Gul Pir and continued working there long after the war was over. The bookstore hardly had any customers for most of the books it had were written in English and on top top that, most of them were first editions. Because of an increased amount of books being lent out and never returned, Gul Pir had made it policy that no non-White would be allowed to rent out any books unless they deposited a certain amount which was two-third of the actual price of the book. Because of this, the few of those who frequented the bookstore stopped coming in and soon afterwards, the bookstore seemed as deserted to Shahmir as their butcher shop. At this point Shahmir had learned how to read and write in English, but wasn't as good as he would've liked to. He would spend most of his days going through books with pictures in them until Gul Pir found him.
"You are in a house of words and you choose to look at pictures?"
After that Gul Pir barred him from touching any book with pictures in it and instead started him on children's book that Shahmir conquered within some weeks. Perceiving the incredible speed at which Shahmir was going through them, he moved him from children's books to fiction which were rather easy reads and then to stories written by some greats and then to ultimate classics. Gul Pir also gave him the task of writing down any new words he would come across and then to look up their meanings in the dangerously thick encyclopaedias that he had sorted out by the alphabets in a bookshelf that was rarely ever touched or dusted. Gul Pir was especially happy that at least someone from the local kin was interested in the words and stories of those long departed. It wouldn't be wrong to say that Gul Pir saw fragments of somewhat his own self in Shahmir. Though age had brought old wisdom to his colourless eyes, bent his back into a permanent hook, and taken from his knees the strength that they once boasted, he too was once just a child and all he wanted to do was read through the infinite pages that had life written all over them. Gul Pir was merely fifteen when his father passed away in a freak accident that saw him take responsibility of his mother who only years ago had been sentenced to bedrest for a back injury that had no cure nor no rest. Gul Pir later found work in an ice factory where he would labor fifteen hours every day to make enough to feed his three younger sisters. He never stopped reading, though, and even in the most terrible of times when he could see no light at the end of it, had no shred of hope left in his heart, and no will to live any longer, he always found peace in the coffee-strained pages that told tales of strangers, men, and beasts who did things he could've done in another lifetime if life was any kinder. In the pages he found the satisfaction that his own life failed to provide and would often tell his heart before he would drift to a dreamless sleep on an empty stomach that the strangers, men, and beasts have taken the adventures on his behalf.
He never implored God or His creation for anything, though, except one time when he had asked the factory owner to lend him the leather shoes that laid abandoned, collecting dust at one corner of this office for one day so that he did not have to wear his torn out shoes that he had mended a little too many times on his youngest sister's wedding. He never would have asked if it wasn't for his sister who had begged him to come well-dressed at her wedding. He had wedded two of his sisters to some of the most respected families in town and he was an evening away from marrying off the last responsibility that his father had left him. He was hopeful that the owner, being an honourable man would consider his request but instead he was thrown out on the street and was told that there was no place in the factory for greed. He did not attend his youngest sister's wedding out of shame and embarrassment that he may cause her new family and her new household. His sister wept for three days and three nights when she found out so many months later what had happened at the factory and begged Gul Pir - on her knees - to forgive her naiveness and stupidity for she did not realise. Gul Pir told her there was nothing to forgive and that with her happily married off, he was finally free. A month later, Gul Pir found the same job that now Shahmir had. Decades later when the owner of the store, the youngest of the Seths of Abdullahpur - one of the most influential families in Lyallpur - passed away mentioning in a single line at the end of his fifty-one pages long will that the bookstore must go to the man by the name of Gul Pir.
Shahmir once asked Gul Pir why he didn't have any children of his own and he simply told him that he never had the time or the luxury.
"Children are a blessing from God Himself," he told him. "And a child made out of love rather than just the bond of matrimony will grow old to be as lonely as its parents had been even in the company of each other." Shahmir had always found Gul Pir to be devoid of any sentiments, but his rather rude and ruthless judgement only made his head hang in shame when Gul Pir told him of a girl that he liked a long time ago. "Her name was Mina," he told him and almost immediately Shahmir realised that he hadn't said that name out loud in so many years and had only thought about her. Gul Pir realised the same thing but only when his eyes, now tired and old, swelled up. He gave out a smile and then went back to sorting the books on the shelf as he was doing before. Gul Pir never told Shahmir what happened between him and Mina and Shahmir was kind enough - or so he believed - never to ask. Years later, as he sat down resting his back by the yellow tree thinking about his own Mina, he regretted not asking Gul Pir about what had happened between them for no one ever asked him the same question anymore and he would've given anything to say her name again and again and again and again and again and again.
The friendship that Shamir had forged with Gul Pir lasted until the old man was laid to rest one summer. His three sisters, their children, and their children, and their children attended the along with Shahmir and his parents. It was the first time Shahmir had lost someone close to his heart and for the first few weeks, he did not understand that it was grief that he was feeling until one day he woke up in the middle of the night complaining of a compressing pain. He told Morni that he did not know where it was hurting but only that it was hurting. Morni took his son who was now weeping uncontrollably and pressed his head onto her chest.
"Long is the night of sorrow," she said to him. "But it's just a night."
"It's just a night. It's just a night..." she continued as Shahmir finally drifted into a dreamless sleep. After that night, Shahmir never went back to work at the bookstore nor he ever dreamed.
The end of the war had finally started bringing some customers - old and new - to the front-door of the Keamaris butcher shop. The business suddenly boomed at such speed that Dost Mohammad had to call back the services of Shahmir to help him. At first, Shahmir would only help pack what his father had cut so cleanly in all kinds of containers that the customers brought with them. Later he started handling the finances and would note down everything that was sold, everyone who still owed money to their name, and the total profits and losses of the day and he would do all of it writing seamlessly with the Parker pen that the mystic mem had gifted him years ago. He was amazed at the fact that even though he had been writing and writing pages over pages with the same pen, he had never run out of ink. At one point, he stated believing that the mem had given him an enchanted pen that would never run out of ink until it did one day and he had to ask for one rupee from his father to refill it. Dost Mohammad, by that point was making so much money and was so happy with all the work that Shahmir was putting in that instead of one, he gave Shahmir two rupee and asked him to take a day off and wander wherever he wanted to with whomever he wanted to. Shahmir, without thinking twice, took his three best friends and went to see their first ever moving picture that was playing in the Taj Cinema a mile or two west of the Chenab Club. All four of them were amazed at how far technology had come and watching on a giant black-and-white screen characters that looked larger than life itself, they felt like as they were bewitched by the wonder that was the entertainment industry. On their way back, they ordered a fine English breakfast for it was the only meal they could afford after their exploits at the cinema hall. In that moment, as Shahmir looked over at Abdul and Musab still arguing about something only God knew, their matching outfits and uncanny resemblance contradicting each other, and Ali Raza enjoying his herbal tea that Shahmir could see that he absolutely hated, he felt free and happy like he had never felt before and then he looked upwards at the blue, clear sky and he whispered a prayer to God.
The booming business saw Dost Mohammad hire an assistant but he never dared invest in big meat ever again in his life. For him, the dream was a step too far into a reality that he had long forgotten. Instead, with the profits that he made, he rebuilt his house. He took off the roof that would leak every rainy season, he pulled apart the walls that had given up a long time ago, and he punched out the broken doors and windows that were hanging by their hinges and then he replaced all of them and painted the house white and light blue. Morni was especially happy with the remodelling for her tired kitchen welcomed a second-hand European stove that Dost Mohammad was able to secure from the nearby Kabarr Market that dealt in equipment that had been replaced with even better versions of themselves in white households around the province. Morni also got a standing fan that ran entirely on electricity that her cousin had told her about after lodging a number of protests with Dost Mohammad of the terrible heat that she would often cry about as "hell on earth." On Shahmir's request and Yusuf's order, Dost Mohammad took the family to see the nearby city of Lahore that two centuries ago had been one of the focal cities of the lost Mughal Empire. Yusuf himself had declined to go for he complained that his cataracts didn't allow him to leave the house and that he was content in solitude in the later and last years of his life. He would spend most of his time sitting in his rocking chair reading one bead after another on his tasbeeh saying God's name, asking for God's forgiveness, and saying God's name again. Although he was pretty capable of carrying out essential daily tasks of cooking, cleaning, and showering, he sometimes felt like he had overstayed his time that had been written for him and now he had to wait for the next departure to where his father, his mother, his brothers, his sister, his dear wife, and so many of his friends had gone to. He remembered being young and one of the oldest memories that he had was of walking by the canal with his siblings - two older brothers and a younger sister - singing songs that he had forgotten now. He would sometimes smile at the memory of his wife who hated every time he touched her hair after eating.
"Your hands were in the food!" She would protest, but then resign to her fate when Yusuf wouldn't stop touching it. "Fine! I'll just take a bath then."
He sometimes wondered the cruelty of life that didn't think twice before separating those who were never meant to be separated. So many times he had wept over the memory of his dear wife whose face he had started to forget, not because time had swept over, but because his old age didn't allow him the luxury of remembering much anymore. Little by little, he would often find himself contemplating the colour of her eyes, the touch of her skin, the silk of her hair, and the lines on her face that gave her the distinct look that she had. One day, he wept and wept and wept because he could not seem to remember the sound of her laugh. He pulled his hair in frustration, still sitting in his rocking chair, and wanted to scream at the top of his lungs, but he did not. All he knew he could do was weep and accept the fact that he was slowly forgetting the one person he thought he would never forget. He was forgetting the love of his life and he could not do anything about it. Sometimes he would silently ask God to call him for he could no longer bear the solitude that old age brought with it. He did not care much about being blind. In fact, he was thankful to God for blinding him for in the darkness of it all, he could still see sometimes the time that had passed on so quickly. He would sometimes see the face of her beautiful wife as if she was right there in front of her. He would sometimes hold her hand in his and would thump himself regretting and weeping for all the times he did not hold her hand when he had a chance to. Love, he would think to himself, is the start and end of everything.
Morni had never seen Lahore but had always wanted to so and when Dost Mohammad finally agreed to take the trip, she had never been so happy in her life. As long as a week before, she could be found running around the house packing everything she thought would be remotely essential. She packed five articles of clothing for all three of them, a velvet hat that she hat bought for her husband some months ago, black leather sandals for Shahmir that she rubbed and shone until she could see her own reflection in it, and a beige embroidered shawl for herself that she would never take out of her trunk as to wear it only on a special occasions. Dost Mohammad neither Shahmir had ever seen her so excited and chaotic at the same time. Morni, in her heart, kept memorising all the places that the neighbours, her cousin Shagufta, and the mailman all of whom had visited Lahore a number of times had told her about. She never thought of writing down what she heard for she never really predicted that they too would visit the city that lay only two hours away one day. In the end, on the day they were supposed to leave, she double checked the three economy-class rail tickets she had sent Dost Mohammad to get two days ago and secured them right beside the little cash they were taking with them in her wallet which she put inside her bag that she had sewn herself. All of them bid their farewells to Yusuf who had come up to the main door.
"Make sure you say a prayer for your grandfather when you visit the Badshahi Mosque, will you?" Yusuf told Shahmir who nodded.
Lahore, in the early nineteenth century was indeed a wonderful place to visit. It had glamorous gardens shelved one on another and had paved pathways that would go on and on for miles without discontinuing. Even the skies that wrapped the city in its magnificence seemed greater and grander than they were anywhere else. Dost Mohammad had been to Lahore twice before but knew all the places by heart and he made sure that his young family did not miss a single monument there was to see in the city. He took them to the Badshahi Mosque that Morni insisted they visit first and he showed them the Lahore Fort which he told them once used to be the key for the great Mughal expansions west, south, and north. Then he took them to the grandiose Shalamar Gardens, the many majestic bazaars, and finally to the Lahore Zoo. To Dost Mohammad's surprise when he asked the two what they had liked the most, both of them immediately said the Zoo. To this, Dost Mohammad gave a laugh and promised them that he would bring them there once again very soon.
This was the first time Shahmir had ever seen anything that wasn't Lyallpur and both him and his mother were surprised and rather overwhelmed at the fact that there were so many goras and mems roaming around rather freely and as if they were the fabric that made the city. Every time they would cross a gora or a mem who were mostly mounted on horseback, tongas, or carriages, Morni would grab Shahmir's hand so tightly that sometimes he would let out a moan in annoyance and pain. Morni couldn't care less if she was hurting Shahmir, though, for she knew she had to protect her son from the foreigners that she had heard such terrible things about but never really had a chance to interact with. Shahmir noticed that almost every gora was dressed in a fine light suit, mostly in the colours white, grey, light blue, and faded pink, and that like back in Chenab Club in Lyallpur, every mem was dressed the same in long skirts and corsets that he knew not only made them uncomfortable but everyone else as well who saw them wearing the torture. On more than three occasions, Morni had to tell him to stop staring at the goras and especially at the mems but she also understood the curiosity of her son for she felt, to some extent, the same overwhelming feeling seeing so many of them in such great numbers just going around living their lives as if everything that had been said about them in whispers and sometimes out loud meant nothing to them. That was the day when Shahmir came to realise the reality of things as they were: the British weren't just an exotic pinch of blend in an otherwise majority India, they were now a part of it.
Morni insisted that they ate at the same stall outside the Aligarh Hotel where they were staying for she said she felt more comfortable and safe there than anywhere else. They would eat twice a day, once before they left to explore whatever they couldn't the day before and once after they had come back from long, tiring day of exploring the magnificent city that was too large to explore in only a week. Morni finally let go of Shahmir's hand when they boarded the same train home that had taken them to Lahore. It was called The Shalimar Express for a reason neither Dost Mohammad nor Morni could tell Shahmir. As it turned out, Shahmir would take the same train a number of times during his lifetime, but he never really got an answer to his question. One person who was traveling with him in the same cabin years later along with his four companions told him that it was called The Shalimar Express because it was inaugurated by a man with the same name. On another occasion, he was told that Shalimar was the only thing both the British and locals could pronounce without rolling their tongues in all kinds of ways. One woman, old as the witches and ghosts, told him that it was called what it was because a child with the same name had died on the tracks on the first day the train ran its course. All-in-all, he made it a custom, rather a tradition, of his own to always ask the people with whom he was sharing his cabin with the same question. He didn't care if he got the right answer or not.
For months later on, Shahmir would talk about his trip to Lahore to his friends, to his teachers, to his customers at the butcher shop, and to his grandfather. He would always mention the Lahore Zoo and ask everyone he made an acquaintance of if they had ever seen a lion or a tiger or an elephant or a giraffe. Most of them hand't and so he would take it upon himself to explain exactly what they looked like and exactly what they sounded like and exactly what they ate and drank and the many stories of the great heroics of people who had captured them in the plains of Africa and brought them to the Indian subcontinent in ships made of metal and as large as cities. The trip to Lahore would turn out to be the first and last trip the Keamaris would take together as a household for everything that happened afterwards changed Shahmir's life forever.