Fiction

Utterly Butterly Deceptive

Munize Manzur

If it was possible to crave something that one has never eaten, then Shojib craved peanut butter and jam sandwiches. That light brown creaminess puzzled him somewhat. How did they get it like that? When he ate peanuts in the park, they were dark brown, or if the nut was over-roasted bitter black. The shells were wrinkly and unyielding to his prodding. He mostly managed to crack them open along the vertical edge but sometimes it broke horizontally and made him feel wretched. As if he wasn't even capable of shelling a nut.

Peanut butter wouldn't make him feel that way. He felt sure of it. The colour was consistent and, in the right temperature with the correct tool, Shojib felt confident he could get it to spread exactly the way he wanted.

Someone clanged against the iron bars. It made a hollow sound. No effort needed, no result offered.

Shojib had studied till class 8. He would have liked to continue studying but his father died, his mother got sick and he had no choice. So he quit school and took the only job offered to him. Repairing old refrigerators.

There was a science to it. First you had to know whether they could be repaired at all. If so, then how could you do it in the least amount of time and money? If you couldn't repair it, you had to know how to take it apart, obsolete piece by obsolete piece, in such a manner that the separated parts could come in handy later. You had to be respectful to each part, unscrewing it away from its original purpose. It didn't matter if you didn't know the later purpose of a part. You simply had to believe it could be used. Matter was not meant to remain inert forever.

Stop that, someone shouted. I'm trying to sleep.
I'm innocent.
Yeah that's what they all say.
No, really I am.
Yeah? I am too. Cruel laughter.

Shojib's boss was pleased with his work and taught him how to repair Air-Conditioners next. Hot summers in Dhaka always guaranteed enough work. Service them, repair them, make them work at an optimum level so the rich could stay cool blowing hot air out their windows.

Soon enough, Shojib was accompanying his boss to the houses for minor electrical jobs. Replacing a bulb. Adjusting the fan regulator. That was how he became an electrician. In human degrees of acceptance, word of mouth, by name. When Shojib realized there was more than one way of getting a degree, he was delighted. The world was a refrigerator stocked up, waiting to be raided.

Jangle of chains. Someone shifted his weight around. Presumably, easing into a dreamless sleep. Being shackled was not the most comfortable position to be in.

He got a mobile phone because he calculated, correctly, that the initial cost would pay off by being on call constantly. City folks were always busy. They needed things to be fixed as soon as possible. He kept the phone attached to his ear at all times. For two reasons: (1) it made him look important. (2) he could listen to the radio and further his social education on the latest music, trends and advice generously doled out by RJs with strangely accented Bangla.

A cough. A quiet prayer muttered. An uneasy truce blanketed everyone. Packed in like sardines, they had no choice.

One day, Shojib was summoned by Mr Hasan's cook. The deep-freezer wasn't working properly; memshaheb's stock of fish and meat were in danger of defrosting. Shojib needed to come right away and fix it or the cook was mincemeat.

The deep-freezer was in the dining room. Next to the tall fridge that proudly sported a keyhole and cloth covers on the door handles. The Hasans obviously took their food seriously, Shojib thought, since they felt the need to keep it under lock and key. This dining room was an electrician's delight. There was a microwave delicately covered with a pink crochet, as if it was wont to catching colds. A toaster that could serve four slices four! A blender with shiny blades, standing sentry. Across the table, on the other side of the room was a small green basin for washing hands.

The air stank of urine. Walls scribbled with angry graffiti. Someone had written 'help'. It had its last letter rudely blackened out. Even hell couldn't be bothered to register here properly.

While tinkering with the deep-freezer's thermostat, Shojib heard the delicate clinking of glass bangles. Actually, he had smelled her a milli-second before. A heady bouquet of coconut oil, Lux soap and talcum powder. Shojib had noticed Kulsum the first time he had come to the Hasans' house but had not found an opportunity to speak to her, until now. He looked up from his work. She smiled.

“Are you able to fix it?” she asked.
“Of course,” he answered. “Very few things I can't fix.”
“I bet I can give you something you can't fix.”
“Give then. Let's see.”

With a giggle, Kulsum took a glass bangle, broke it in half and offered it to him. When their hands touched, he felt a surge of power that had nothing to do with him as an electrician.

A chorus of snores slowly built up. Someone cried out in his sleep. One pair of eyes continued staring, his breath steady.

One week later, Shojib was called again to the Hasans; this time to see why the Air-Conditioner was not working in the children's room. Kulsum was assigned to sit by the doorway to keep an eye on him. Shojib was glad to return the favour. It took him about 15 minutes to fix the problem.

“Done,” he said, wiping his hands. He switched on the machine. “Let it be on. Check it after a while. The room should be cool by then. Otherwise, call me again.”

Kulsum nodded assent and led him towards the kitchen. They passed the dining room enroute.

“Do you want to wash your hands?” she asked.

Shojib hesitated, intuitively knowing the wash basin was for family use only.

“It's okay. No one is home. They won't know,” she said, understanding his hesitation. “I won't tell.”

Relishing a few more minutes with her, Shojib walked up to the basin. Kulsum went over to the fridge and took out two jars and a loaf of bread.

“They don't lock it when they go out?” Shojib asked her, indicating the fridge with his head as he scrubbed his hands clean.

“Not always. Memshaheb left in a hurry today. Forgot to lock this…among other things.”

The man in the dark let his imagination roam free. The whiteness of fresh bread; the pink of jam; the creamy texture of peanut butter. Unblemished skin on a face so pure. Blushing cheeks. Tender flesh, soft and yielding.

Kulsum made him a peanut butter and jam sandwich and put it in one of the children's tiffin box.

“I'm sure you've never had anything like this before. Try it. You can return the box tomorrow,” she said. “No one will notice it missing.”

Shojib smuggled it out of the house, anticipating the joy of seeing Kulsum next day. He deliberately saved the sandwich to relish later at night, in the privacy of his own room. But the police got to it before he did.

Mrs Hasan's jewellery was missing from her cupboard. Upon questioning the household staff, Kulsum had mentioned leaving Shojib alone for 20 minutes while she went to fetch a broom to clean up his repair mess. He must have snuck into the master bedroom then. Kulsum was reprimanded and warned not to be so foolish. She was fresh from the village and didn't know better. These city boys were not to be trusted. God only knew what else this boy had taken! She nodded her head, suitably mollified. Yes, she had been scared to admit this, but…dining-ware and tiffin boxes were missing too.

When the police broke into his room, they found one tiffin box, intact sandwich and all. The audacity of that boy! Helping himself to such food! They questioned him about the other stolen items, to no avail. But he was obviously guilty because he didn't protest when they read him the charges.

He took out the broken glass bangle and fingered it thoughtfully. Shojib was determined to eat his peanut butter and jam sandwich one day. He knew how the bread was sliced and where the jam was kept; he knew how to spread the peanut butter. One day he would get to eat it. As soon as he got out of jail.

Munize Manzur is a member of Writers Block. She writes fiction.