He was a mason and a master story teller.
A word twisted into "My son " by my wicked classmates . for endless ribbing , which hundreds of flung-in-rage -chalk -stubs could not quell.
They had walked past my half built brick house , and had found me in deep conversation with this man with a shock of white hair, and whiter beard, perched atop a mound of bricks.
"Who is he ?"Idle curiosity.Should have shooed them away, instead I replied "He is the mason."
Sarafuddin told us tales from the Arabian nights. He was unlettered , apparently . But he knew the urdu alphabets , and taught us how to write our names in urdu, by drawing them in the dirt with a twig plucked from the guava tree.
Terrible wars, strange pestilences, palace intrigues, loyal , armor-clinking warriors, and persian bazaars with hijab covered women, strange soothsayers and magical carpets came alive each day during his prolonged tea break.
Sarafuddin never had lunch breaks , unlike most of his workers. They carried their tiffin boxes full of home made sabzi-roti, he carried his bundle of bidis.Upon insistence , he would agree to tea.
Tales of Arabian valour, steeds that" flew not galloped" , men and women who could wreak magical havoc, flying carpets , all still linger with the aroma of stale tobacco, damp cement and slanting sunshine of the forenoon falling on ash- covered brick piles straight from the kilns.
He was different , yet one of us . It is difficult to explain, the one ness. It had to be experienced.
His ability to speak the same language , yet carry us to such different lands and times. That wove magic around us. He would sit hunched up, on a pile of dirt, his lungi tucked beneath him, haranguing a worker about cement - and' gara' mixing , while narrating mesmerising tales with infinite tenderness.
He, in short, was the architect of our houses , and dreams . Of veiled princesses, and kohl eyed princes .Every year, for the annual white wash, he would arrive with his tubs of limestone (Chuna) and the usual flunkies.
Five days later, he left the walls and rooms whiter, and our collection of stories richer. He knew every story in the elusive Sherazade series. The princess about to be murdered , and how she wove a magical spell with her fabulous stories .
Sarafuddin was our own Sherazade , bidi-smoking, lungi-clad, white bearded.
As our world veers today, dangerously towards intolerance and bigotry, one wonders what is lost in trying to prove one's point. A precious something, elusive, indefinable , mist-clad , like the lost treasures of Ali baba.
A word twisted into "My son " by my wicked classmates . for endless ribbing , which hundreds of flung-in-rage -chalk -stubs could not quell.
They had walked past my half built brick house , and had found me in deep conversation with this man with a shock of white hair, and whiter beard, perched atop a mound of bricks.
"Who is he ?"Idle curiosity.Should have shooed them away, instead I replied "He is the mason."
Sarafuddin told us tales from the Arabian nights. He was unlettered , apparently . But he knew the urdu alphabets , and taught us how to write our names in urdu, by drawing them in the dirt with a twig plucked from the guava tree.
Terrible wars, strange pestilences, palace intrigues, loyal , armor-clinking warriors, and persian bazaars with hijab covered women, strange soothsayers and magical carpets came alive each day during his prolonged tea break.
Sarafuddin never had lunch breaks , unlike most of his workers. They carried their tiffin boxes full of home made sabzi-roti, he carried his bundle of bidis.Upon insistence , he would agree to tea.
Tales of Arabian valour, steeds that" flew not galloped" , men and women who could wreak magical havoc, flying carpets , all still linger with the aroma of stale tobacco, damp cement and slanting sunshine of the forenoon falling on ash- covered brick piles straight from the kilns.
He was different , yet one of us . It is difficult to explain, the one ness. It had to be experienced.
His ability to speak the same language , yet carry us to such different lands and times. That wove magic around us. He would sit hunched up, on a pile of dirt, his lungi tucked beneath him, haranguing a worker about cement - and' gara' mixing , while narrating mesmerising tales with infinite tenderness.
He, in short, was the architect of our houses , and dreams . Of veiled princesses, and kohl eyed princes .Every year, for the annual white wash, he would arrive with his tubs of limestone (Chuna) and the usual flunkies.
Five days later, he left the walls and rooms whiter, and our collection of stories richer. He knew every story in the elusive Sherazade series. The princess about to be murdered , and how she wove a magical spell with her fabulous stories .
Sarafuddin was our own Sherazade , bidi-smoking, lungi-clad, white bearded.
As our world veers today, dangerously towards intolerance and bigotry, one wonders what is lost in trying to prove one's point. A precious something, elusive, indefinable , mist-clad , like the lost treasures of Ali baba.
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