The Wish Maker by Ali Sethi Read Free Book Online

lowered the book, thought about it and said, “Well. It’s hard to say what’s true sometimes. One person might have one way of looking at things. And another person might have another way. You can hold your own beliefs as long as they allow other people to live their lives. You can’t tell me that your beliefs are better than mine. I wouldn’t like that. And neither would you, if you put yourself in my position.
    But Daadi had said, “The truth is always there, whether you believe it or not.”
    So I tried to believe in what remained of my father, and looked at his pictures and read his books:
    The Indian Army had responded vigorously to Pakistani infiltration of irregular forces into Kashmir. With a double pincer on Badori Bulge, the Indians had captured the strategic Haji Pir Pass. Core areas in Azad Kashmir, including the towns of Muzaffarabad and Mirpur, lay threatened. The only way out of this critical situation was to launch a diversionary maneuver.
    The shiny g-suit hung in the wardrobe and was ready for wearing.
    Operation “Grand Slam” was thus launched in the early hours of 1 September 1965. Audacious as the plan was, it took the Indians by complete surprise.
    He stood beside the jet, his helmet raised to his heart. He was going to fly it alone for the first time.
    A Pak Army force consisting of an infantry division and two armored regiments, along with extensive artillery support, started the attack on Indian positions.
    He was trying to move the control column but it was stuck in his hands.
    Outnumbered and outgunned, Brig. Man Mohan Singh, Commander 191 Infantry Brigade, was faced with a critical situation.
    The plane was shuddering.
    And he frantically called for air support.
    But the plane went down. And he died all over again.
    “Good night,” said my mother. She had finished reading her book; she returned it to the bedside table and reached out a hand to extinguish the lamp.
    And the thoughts stayed on in the dark, and changed their shapes and became wishes that were made silently to a dead father, who was always somewhere, even after he had died, even after it was known that he would never respond—he was alive and he was listening.

    In the morning my mother shook me awake for school.
    “I don’t want to!”
    “Well, you have to.”
    And she forced me to bathe.
    “What will they say? That Zaki smells? You want them to say that?”
    “I do want that! I do!”
    “Be quiet. You’ll wake everyone.”
    But Daadi was up already. She awoke at dawn to say the fajr prayer and was reading the newspapers when we went into her room. Naseem brought tea and rusks on a tray and sat herself on the carpet.
    My mother said, “This milk is bad.” She was standing above the tray with the small jug of milk in her hand, and was holding her briefcase in the other hand. She took it every morning to the office of the English-language daily for which she worked, and returned with it in the evening; and by then all items for the running of the household had been bought.
    Daadi looked up, saw the milk, saw the briefcase, wanted to say something, decided against it and raised her newspaper instead and read out the headlines.
    My mother stood above the tray and appeared to hear the headlines, while Naseem responded to the English with expressions of growing alarm, although it was not a language she spoke or even understood. Afterward she went into the next room and woke Samar Api, whose school day started an hour after mine.
    My school was dull. It had twenty classrooms and a canteen, a play area with a small sandpit for the kindergarten, and a barren sports field for the older classes. Every big wall carried a picture of Allama Iqbal, the national poet, who always wore a shawl and struck the same pensive pose in profile, and a plaque that bore the school motto, which was Cogito, ergo sum . It was never translated for our benefit but was always among the questions we were made to answer when a special visitor came