So, you wan’t a story ?
In olden days,when the djinns and darvishes roamed freely in the world, there lived a farmer named Salim. Salim was a hard working man, who used to toil on his fields, did not gamble, did not even go to the village tari shop, saving all his money to bring true his only passion. He wanted his son – Ibrahim – to get employed with the Nawabs.
Ibrahim, the preteen handsome son of Salim, knew of this over whelming dream of his Abbujaan and prepared well to fulfill his dream.
Looking at the growing young boy, Salim fondly recollected the times, when as a restless toddler, Ibrahim would run out of the house so often that Salim had to tie a cow bell on his torso. Ibrahim used to be traced by the sound of this bell, earning him the title “Ghantiwale baba“.
Late in the day, Ibrahim and Salim found out that studying hard at the village madarsa cannot be called “preparing well“. Getting into the Nawab’s services required a special exam to be cleared. Many young guys from the city were already preparing for this exam since last five years.
Salim was crest fallen, and so was Ibrahim.
Around this time a god sent djinn made a blessed appearance. He asked for some alms from a glad and eager Salim, who praised the almighty for this opportunity to fulfill his dreams. In return of the alms, surely the djinn blessed Ibrahim , and soon Ibrahim was in the Nawabs services !
That, sadly is not the end of the story, my dear.
Some months down the line, Salim found the nagar kotwal at his door, asking him about whereabouts of the blessed djinn.
“How can an ordinary person like me know about the whereabouts of a djinn” Salim pleaded. “Then you come with me to the Kotwali” said the nagar kotwal with a smirk. Salim was surprised to find Ibrahim, along with several others, in the kotwali – pleading there ignorance of the whereabouts of the djinn, to an indifferent kotwali staff.
Days rolled to months, and they all were still pleading with the kotwal. Each passing day sent Ibrahim and the younger lot into desperation. At some point, Ibrahim’s mounting rage overwhelmed his inborn respect for Abbujaan. He started shouting accusations at Salim for all his misfortune.
Salim was so shocked and surprised that he went dumb struck. No, he was not dumb struck for a minute, an hour or a day. He was dumb struck from then till eternity, not speaking, shedding tear or showing any signs of emotion, even when the kotwal informed him of the suicide of his son Ibrahim – the “Ghantiwale baba” – in the kotwali.
The exasperated nagar kotwal did not have any use of this dumb man, but had the good heart to drop him home. For years hence, Salim sat at his doorstep, staring blankly at the horizon from morning till late in the evening, when his begum will call him for his roti.
He never recognized anybody again, nor betrayed any understanding of a spoken word. Sometimes, deep in his sleep, he would hear intently to the sounds of the ringing cow bells, which sounded strangely familiar.
Oh, you are already asleep ? So I thought.
(This is completely a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person or djinn, dead or alive, is purely coincidental)