I don’t usually talk about Ali, except for to say, “Oh, I used to know a guy who went to the Delhi British School,” or “Your name is Mohammad too?” His name was Mohammad- Mohammad Saqawat Akhtar. “It’s a very rare name,” he had said. But Jahaan kept calling him “Abdullah,” I don’t know why. He said he’d rather be called “Ali Baba.” I might have missed the sarcasm there, but forever afterward, Ali he was.
“Don’t call me Mohammad,” he would say, “I get scared when you do. It means you’re serious.”
The first time I saw him, I uttered a distracted “Hi,” to him because I was too caught up in telling Jahaan how Anushree had slapped and dumped her boyfriend standing smack in the middle of Forum Mall. “Are you Adiba’s cousin?” I had asked him disinterestedly. “Ya,” he had replied. He didn’t even know who Adiba was. “Emni boledilo,” as Jahaan had commented.
Ali could do many “weird” things. That was the word he had used, “What other weird things can you do?” he had asked me. He could frown with one eyebrow, twitch his ears, dislocate his thumb from the socket, roll his tongue and cry at will. [click to continue…]
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