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Short Story

The Cactus

Hasan Manzar (Translated by Faniq Hassan)
After ringing the doorbell, my wife and I stood quietly beside the door, each thinking the same thoughts-Let's sec how this house owner turns out, what his wife is like and. above all, what this house looks like from inside.
On the outside the house was very quiet, almost soothingly tranquil, something we had been looking for. A cool morning breeze blew through the foliage. Besides the rustle of leaves, only one other sound could be heard--music from somewhere far off.
Near where we stood was a full grown cactus. Somehow, it hinted at the personality of the house owner. At some point, when this cactus must have grown past the window and that touched the eave, a hole had been cut into the eave to let it grow unimpeded. Now it had grown through the hole and stood above it proudly, like an ostrich holding its head high after having beaten its rivals.
Gesturing with my eyes, I pointed out the hole to my wife.
"I've noticed already. Looks like they're nice people.’*
We heard the distant rattle of a door latch being opened somewhere inside. A middle-aged male voice enquired, “Who is it?" After a short pause, I said we had come to look at the house. The voice asked, ‘Are you from some real estate agency’?
“No,” I answered.
“Okay. Just a minute.” These words were followed by a long silence. In a sense we had been introduced to the owner. The tension that usually precedes such a visit had disappeared. We felt free to walk about a bit and look around. The information we had been given was correct. It was a two-storied house built on an area of about six hundred square yards. We could see that it had been well maintained. All the windowpanes were intact. There were no drips of paint on the glass, fallen when the wood had been painted. Our probing had gone only so far when the front door opened and the owner came and stood on the doorstep He examined us
. cursorily and asked us in.
My wife entered the vestibule. I followed her, the owner behind me. Although it was ten a.m., the house still seemed asleep. In the drawing room, the owner asked where we lived, what we did for a living, and so on. Then, asking us to wait, he vanished into the corridor that separated the rows of rooms. The drawing room was remarkably tidy. The curtains were drawn and neatly tied with ribbons. Pictures hung everywhere on the walls and, astonishingly, there w ere no cobwebs behind any frame, nor even any dust * on the glass. The cream-coloured back covers . on the sofa looked fresh and clean, as placed
there just that morning.
On the other side of this large room, behind a glass bead curtain, was the dining table. Extra chairs had been lined up nicely along the wall. “They don't seem very anxious to sell," my wife whispered.
“Why?” I enquired, startled.
“All the signs show that they're well settled. Those who want to sell often just cosmetically dress things up. They don’t polish the leaves of the rubber plant in their drawing room, do they?”
I had missed that one.
The gentleman came into the dining room through some secret entrance and stood parting the glass bead curtain. "Let me show you around,” Ije said.
"Wouldn't it be better if we had some idea of the price first, to see if we can afford it?" I said. “Don’t worry about that,” he said. "Have a look at it first.”
“But we might just end up tiring you for nothing if we... ” said my wife.
'...If you can't buy the house?” he completed her sentence. "Don't let that bother you. This has been our routine for quite some days now. Interested parties come to see it. Some object to this, some to that. But neither my wife nor I feel tired,” he added.
“No," my wife said, “We mean it wouldn't be
fair if we later couldn't even come up with enough for the down payment."
"There's another possibility too. This house may not prove to be worth the money you want to spend on it," he said with a laugh. "Come on, madam, let's start with the ground floor."
"As you wish," my wife answered. "There are three bedrooms at this level--one master bedroom and two others almost as big as the master bedroom. Each has an attached bath."
My wife whispered in my car, "Perhaps the other buyers found the price too steep.” "Yes, maybe. But there's no harm in looking,” I whispered back. From the construction and the size of the house we had already gathered it was going to be way beyond our means. The owner walked ahead, urging us to go inside every room and see. Each room was nicely decorated. Family photographs hung on the walls --older members in black and white, the young almost all in colour. There were also pictures of foreigners. The kitchen as well as the gallery had pictures, and there were flower pots everywhere. My wife observed the American-style
kitchen with great interest. I could easily guess what was in her mind: in our own house, whenever we build it — if we don't buy this one--the layout of this kitchen will come in very handy.
Then we went upstairs. The bedrooms there, like those downstairs, were unoccupied. In one we spotted a child's bike and a rocking horse on the carpet.
"This is perhaps your children’s room?” my wife enquired.
"No, my children's children,” the man answered good-humouredly.
“Are they at school?” I asked. As soon as I had put the question, I realized it was foolish because today was a holiday.
"No, the two children whose room this is have gone to Kuwait."
After admiring the neatness and order of the room, my wife said, "It looks as if things were put in order just today after the children left for school."
"Or,” I said, “The children are so well mannered that they themselves put everything in place before leaving the room."
“Oh, no," the man answered, “I could say volumes about their good manners! Even when they know they're leaving for Kuwait, they leave a mess on the rug, as if they're coming back in a short while to resume
playing. It's we who have to arrange their tilings after coming back from the airport.” We took quite some time to go through that room. When we came out we ran into the owner's wife. She was watering the potted plants hanging in the corridor. Seeing us she said, "Forgive me, I was on the top floor when you came in.”
My wife whispered, "Oh God, we're yet to see the top floor!"
The owner's wife put the watering can down on the floor and wiped her wet hands on one end of her dupatta. We stood there in awkward silence. The gentleman said, "Let's go to the top floor.”
We both followed him, myself willingly, but my wife against her wishes. Her knees bother her when she climbs stairs, so it was no surprise to me when she said after climbing a couple of steps, "You go ahead. I'll wait here." She took the watering can from the owner's wife and said, "Allow me to do this. Flow many children do you have?”
The top floor, which was actually the roof, had a big open courtyard with two large rooms on one end. In front of them was a large, L-shaped wooden patio with a banister. The flowerpots on the patio had been watered recently. It seemed the owner and his wife did not come up here very often, perhaps only when the plants had to be watered. It took the owner quite some time to open the locks, which were somewhat rusted.
As I entered the first room, I asked the owner, "Whose room is this?”
"My elder son's,” he answered.
"Where is he?"
“In the States. In Houston.”
Bare mattresses lay on the box springs. Various things had been piled up in one corner and covered with a tarpaulin. One shelf was filled with books, the other with souvenirs from various countries.
Leaning against the railing on the patio, we talked for a long time about world affairs. He asked me if I needed the house as my principal residence.
"Yes, that's our wish. Only God knows when that wish will be granted."
“For how many people? I mean, how big is your family.”
“Three children and two adults.”
“Then this house is probably going to be too big for you.”
“I think so too. How many children do you have?”
"Three daughters, two sons, and seven grandchildren.”
“I don't see any of them here," I said, a little impudently.
"One daughter is in Kuwait, the other two are in Canada. One son is in the States and the second is in England."
Suddenly he seemed an old man. I noticed
near his earlobes some hair that had escaped the blade. His cheeks also revealed he had not shaved carefully There were white rings around his pupils in both eyes. Downstairs, his wife and mine were sitting side by side in the drawing room. In front of them on the trolley were coffee and some dry fruits.
I asked his permission to leave. He said, “Did you like the house?" "Very much," I answered.
"But..." my wife intervened.
“I know you cannot take it. It s too big for your needs," he said. “But that doesn't make much difference, does it? We can still have a cup of coffee together.” He sat down on the sofa and started breaking almonds with a nutcracker. Willy-nilly, I too sat down. His wife was serving coffee to my wife.
When, after coffee, my wife and I came out of the house, his wife accompanied us to the door. She said, “Come, let me show you my garden.”
“We've already met your cactus."
"There are many more, meet them too." In a small garden she had accumulated a number of different shrubs, trees and creepers. There were a couple of palms as well. All seemed to have been watered that morning.
We stood in their car port, talking.
"Where would you live in Karachi after selling the house?" I asked him.
“Don’t know,” he said.
“With some relatives? Do you have any here?” "Yes, there are some. Here and there. But it's useless to count on anyone's being near you in order to live.”
Unexpectedly, his wife joined in the conversation, "We had chosen this city--that is, Hyderabad--and, more particularly, this house after a lot of consideration. Now we’re afraid of going to a new place. Who knows who might be where tomorrow?”
As soon as my wife got into the car to return home she said, "Do you know they have three daughters?”
"I know.”
"And two sons?”
“I know that too.”
“They're all married and gone, leaving the nest empty. During holidays, sometimes one of the daughters visits them, that's all.” "What about the sons?"
"One is married to an American who works in the States. She visits them sometimes. The other son's wife is Pakistani. She doesn't get along with the old lady.”
I looked at my wife in admiration. I could not have got that sort of information out of the old fellow.
’From The End of History by Hasan Manzar. Katha Edition 2002 reviewed below.