The Wish Maker by Ali Sethi Read Free Book Online Page A

to the school.
    “What is the motto of our school?”
    “The motto of our school is cogitoergosum.”
    “What is an object?”
    “An object is a nonliving thing.”
    “What is an organism?”
    “An organism is a living thing.”
    “What is a valley?”
    “A valley is a low land between two mountains.”
    In the first year we were made to read an essay on Aziz Bhatti Shaheed. It was the first essay in a book called English for Class One Students , authored by one Brigadier (Retd.) Arif Ahsan. The cover showed a group of children playing under a banyan tree. The banyan tree was large and spreading; the children were fair-skinned and wore shalwar kameezes and not the uniforms that we had to wear, and were smiling and laughing and running around in the shade of the tree as if in a state of unsurpassable satisfaction. The first page of the book was blank but for a dedication. Brigadier (Retd.) Arif Ahsan had written: This book is dedicated to the memory of my late father, Syed Ahsanullah, who instilled in me the very love of English that has culminated in the publication of this book.
    It should have been “the very lovely love of English” or “the very nice love of English,” and not “the very love of English.” Brigadier (Retd.) Arif Ahsan had left out an adjective on the first page of a book called English for Class One Students .
    But there was going to be a test on the essay. It said:
    Aziz Bhatti Shaheed was a major in the Pakistan Army. In the 1965 war against India he gave the supreme sacrifice of his life when an AP shell from the enemy tank struck him on the shoulder, killing him instantaneously.
    I underlined “instantaneously.” It was a long word, and was made up of small parts that were easier to say alone.
    “Miss!” someone shouted. “Zaki Shirazi’s father was in the air force!”
    “Yes, Miss!” cried someone else. “Miss, he died in a plane crash, Miss!”
    Now Miss, who was long and sharp and sheathed today in pink, looked up from the book on her desk and said, “Zaki Shirazi, stand up.”
    The legs of the chair made a scraping sound.
    “Which war did your father die in?”
    “No war, Miss. Accident.”
    “Oh,” said Miss, disappointed. “Zaki Shirazi, sit down.”
    And I sat down and began to murmur the words in a desperate chant:
    Killing him instantaneously. Killing him instantaneously. Killing him instantaneously . . .

    At two o’clock the bell rang, sounding release, and the corridors became filled with commotion. The parents of children and their drivers were standing beyond the gate; there had been kidnappings at other schools and demands for ransom, and in response the school administration had decided to restrict the flow of movement: the children and their claimants were separated by the thick iron bars of the gate, and the waves and shouts of identification were verified by an old white-haired man who sat on a stool inside and kept his hand on the bolt. He heard a shout, pointed to the shouter, pointed to the child, considered their connection, then unbolted the gate and held it open and shut it again. I went with Naseem past the ice-lolly man, past the man roasting channa in a pit of sand on a cart, and then along the row of parked cars and motorcycles. Daadi sat in the back of her Suzuki with her window down for ventilation, a handkerchief pressed to her nose and mouth for protection against the fumes, and Samar Api sat beside her in the checkered school uniform, which was creased and dusty now, and stained permanently at the hem and near the sleeves with small spots of ink.
    “Samar Api, give the masala, please.”
    She was eating a chhalli and had kept the packet of masala with the lime and the other chhallis in her lap.
    “Say please.”
    “I already said it.”
    “So say it again.”
    “Please.”
    “Say thank you.”
    “Thank you.”
    “Say ‘Samar Api, you’re my favorite cousin.’ ”
    “Samar Api, you’re my favorite cousin.”
    She