Hurry, hurry, hurry. Hurry to class, hurry because you can’t possibly miss this one. You just can’t.
The halls were silent, the birds were out on the trees. Summer sunlight was penetrating through his brows and he could feel the hot floor just centimeters beyond his feet. Every time they hit the floor, his thinning sandals could feel the same rocky path he had been walking for the past four years.
But today was the last time he would be taking this path. Today would be the last time he would have to hurry in worn out shoes and a sweaty brow. Today would be the end of it all. Today he would walk out a free man.
He took a seat right in the front, glad that he had narrowly escaped the clock striking the hour, he had narrowly escaped the wrath of one of his favorite professors, who, perhaps, was his favorite because of his fatherly anger and his striking resemblance to Zia ul Haq.
Raghib quickly wiped the sweat from his brow from his old handkerchief that his mother had promised would bring him good luck. He waited for the professor to begin the class and furtively glanced around.
His classmates were just as silent because Professor Laiq did not like a noisy class. It did not matter that he was teaching students who were past the age of twenty and well-capable of paying attention if they needed to, but Laiq Zuberi liked order. He liked discipline. He liked truth. He liked justice. He liked fair play. Perhaps that was why Raghib liked Professor Laiq. Everything that Raghib’s father had been telling and teaching him since he was a boy. Things worth fighting for. Things worth dying for.
Despite the amazing amount of reverence Professor Laiq gathered from his students, it did not stop the tenuous hum of chatter that floated around the classroom. Profound enough for the students to stamp their independence. Slight enough for the Professor to know he was being respected.
Raghib did not know how he could contribute to it. He was especially unable to grasp the offhand grace most of his classmates were capable of. How they were able to lean back in their chairs and push their feet against the desk and tilt their heads and talk to their neighbors about the latest match between Pakistan and India while Professor Laiq stood before them, shuffling his papers, a clear sign that he was about to begin speaking any minute.
“Gentlemen. It is 28th November 1981. This is going to be your last class with me. I want to go over some notes with you. And I want to tell you that it has been a great privilege teaching bright minds such as yourselves.”
Some students clapped. There was a cheer of sorts.
“You will go home today, study, take your exams and become people of exemplary value to this country. I hope someday you will understand just how important hydraulics are to the people around you.”
They all tittered.
Professor Laiq stood with his arms on the dais. His body was leaned forward and he was smiling at the small sea of faces. His salt and pepper hair were much behind a gleaming scalp that showed Raghib that a man could look graceful even if he didn’t have hair on his head. He nervously ran his hand through his own thick black hair and wondered if he would look half as good as Professor Laiq twenty five years from now.
“So let’s wrap up today’s last minute notes, any questions any of you might have about the exams and talk about what is in store for you all post-graduation.”
Another flutter of activity followed. Some questions were thrown to the Professor in half-joking attempts to get him to reveal some questions for the exam. Raghib cleared his throat, wiped his brow again and said, “S-sir, if I can have a word?”
“Yes, dear boy, go ahead.” Professor Laiq smiled.
“Sir, can I have a word with you after the class? I wanted to discuss some opportunities post-graduation.”
“Certainly.”
Raghib noticed and subsequently ignored a sharp look thrown to him by some of his classmates. So he had gotten in an interview somewhere and he knew his classmates would hound him later about it. He mostly kept to himself and his classmates didn’t make much of an effort to get to know a boy who had been wearing the same set of sandals for the past four years to university – so Raghib knew that dodging their post-class questions would be easier than it would have been had he been noteworthy and popular in this group of people who had a bright future and little care for just exactly how bright it needed to be to be rid of most of their troubles.
When he was alone with Professor Laiq, he began bombarding him with questions regarding Pakistan Engineers – a firm that provided consultancy to off-shore drilling companies. Did they pay well? Did they take care of their employees? Was it worth the amount of flattery he would have to produce to one of his old uncles to get him the job?
All answers were in the affirmative and Professor Laiq was deeply impressed with Raghib’s intensity to join the work force. “I must ask. Why the hurry to find a job? Why don’t you wait for at least two or three more opportunities? Maybe you will have something better.”
“I don’t want something better. There is no something better, sir. Because there always is something better.”
Professor Laiq smiled. “You wasted four long years in engineering, son. Philosophy is what your talent is.”
“Sir, I need an opportunity that I can take straight away. I – don’t have much time.”
Professor Laiq leaned forward. “Is everything alright at home, son?”
“Oh yes, yes. Everything’s fine. No emergencies, as such. I’m just – keen on starting work.”
Professor Laiq leaned back. He was studying Raghib very closely. “Well, then, I think you should take the opportunity as soon as it comes at you. But, as you probably know, off-shore jobs are very tough. If they send you to a different country, you may have to stay there without much contact from the outside world.”
“That’s alright,” he said quickly. “I don’t mind.”
The professor laughed. “That’s easier said than done.” He got up. “I have a meeting now, so if you’ll excuse me.” He paused. “I wish you good luck, son. I hope you get more success than you have ever dreamed of.”
Raghib left after a strong handshake and a hearty thanks. He walked back on the stone steps and saw, out of the corner of his eye, a group of his classmates sitting at the cafeteria benches eating samosas and chai. His stomach let out a low growl and he bit his lip.
Some day. He told himself. Some day. I will have money to eat whenever I am hungry.
He began walking towards the bus stop and began humming to himself. This helped him forget the noises his stomach was making. He stood on the road and wiped his brow again. Some day. Some day he would buy a car. And some day he would switch the AC on and blot out summer. He would park his car in a fancy house. He would eat a full lunch. He wouldn’t get stale bread and he wouldn’t go to sleep hungry because he didn’t like stale bread. He would feel full and satisfied.
When the bus came, he was smiling.
(end of part one)
