The jackal who had a hair on his bottom

The jackal who had a hair on his bottom

A Kashmiri folk tale retold by M.K.Kaw

There was once upon a time a jackal Shalakak in Srinagar. He was a modern jackal who believed in a practical approach to life. He did his MBA from IIM Ahmedabad, the best of the IIMs.

When he completed his education, he returned to his parents who lived in their ancestral lair in Bana Mohalla in downtown Srinagar.

There was a family conclave on how he should earn his livelihood. It was agreed by all that he had a natural talent for howling.

His father said, “Right from your childhood you had a God-given gift for howling. Now it is your USP. Go and market it.”

Shalakak sent his bio data around. He attached an audio-tape of his special talent. He was interviewed by a property dealer and immediately given a job offer.

“Now you certainly have a long and mournful howl”, said the property dealer. “I want that you should sound as if there are many jackals howling.”

Shalakak practised his howl till he sounded like ten jackals howling. “Perfect!” said his employer. “You will have to work on the night shift.”

Shalakak was taken to a wide expanse of vacant land which was being marketed by the competitors of the property dealer. There he was let loose and asked to howl all night long.

When prospective customers inquired about the merits of the plots being offered for sale, they were told by the neighbours about the jackals who howled mournfully all night long.

The prices of property fell and the dealer bought up all of these plots at throwaway rates. He built a multi-storeyed complex and asked Shalakak to now keep his mouth shut.

One day, Shalakak was taking a bath in one of the swanky bathrooms, which had a huge mirror in all four walls. When he put on the shower and looked with admiration at his reflection, he was horrified to see a huge hair on his bottom.

“What the hell!”, Shalakak muttered to himself, “Where from has this come?”

He looked at his reflection from all angles, but the hair refused to go away. It was most definitely not a hallucination.

“I must do something about it and pronto!” he said to himself and made a note on the top of his “to-do list” for the next day.

Next morning he was seated with Nabira, the barber of Bana Mohalla.

“Where is this hair located?” Nabira asked delicately, wondering whether he had heard him aright.

“You know, it is on the left,” Shalakak lowered his voice in deference to the other customers, “buttock, near the…you know what!”

“We don’t generally touch that portion of the anatomy, you know,”

Nabira said conspiratorially, “but you are a valued customer. So I will make an exception. Of course”, he added slyly, “We will charge double the normal rates.”

“One more thing. I will not touch this ..this.. horrible thing in the holy month of Ramadan.”

The deal was struck. Nabira said that he would visit his house after it was dark and do the job while he was asleep. Shalakak agreed.

After a month, one evening, Nabira came and was admitted by the father. When Shalakak had started snoring, Nabira went into the bedroom and, with a wild sweep of his shaving razor, he cut off the offending hair.

It was a hair like none he had seen earlier—ten and a half inches long and thick as a rope. He kept it carefully in an envelope and took it home. The father thanked him and paid his bill on the way out.

Next morning, all hell broke loose. Shalakak stormed into Nabira’s shop even before the earliest customer had come.

“Where is my hair?” he fulminated, “What have you done to it?”

Nabira had kept the hair in an envelope and it was even now resting in his inner coat pocket. Frankly speaking, he had no intention of parting with a prize acquisition that he wanted to keep as a curiosity; he would display it to his grandchildren in the evening of his life.

“Thrown it away, of course,” Nabira said, feigning anger, “Did you think I would frame it and display it in my drawing-room?”

Shalakak thought for a second, then decided that the best policy would be to be frank.

“Look, I forgot to tell you the other day. I had written about the hair to the Guinness Book of Records. I had not received any reply. So I thought they were not interested.” He paused.

“And  now?” Nabira left his question hanging in the air.

“ This morning I got an email from the organisers. They are sending a team to inspect the hair within three days .If you have the hair and can paste it back where it was, we will both become world famous and also bag a cash prize.”

Nabira knew that Shalakak was an MBA , adept at making up stories. When the hair had been severed from the root, the Guinness team of experts would have to be blind not to see the reality that it was a severed hair. And even if they gobbled up this tale, they would in all probability award the prize to Shalakak.

After all, the achievement lay in growing the hair all these years, not in shaving it off.

No! His best policy would be to clam up.

He said, “I threw way the hair yesterday itself. I never keep cut hair. How can I convince you?”

Shalakak tried various techniques to make Nabira change his stand but without success.

At last, his patience broke down and he lost his temper.

He sang, “Give me the hair ten and a half inches by measure

                 Or else give me your shaving razor.”

And he made a slogan of it till Nabira capitulated.

So Shalakak got the shaving razor.

                                        (2)

Some weeks later, Shalakak went on a journey. On the way he met a shepherd who was steering a big herd of sheep. The sheep had a thick coat of hair and they were in dire need of a shear.

The shepherd had stopped at a wayside shearing house. Some of the sheep had been sheared, while others awaited their turn. Shalakak

took a break and rested his tired feet by sitting on a bench. It was amusing to see the expression on the faces of the sheep when they were being sheared. And their visible relief when the operation was over.

Suddenly there was a sound of something snapping. Shalakak saw the shearing knife break into two. The shearer looked dumbfounded, not knowing how to respond to the situation. Obviously he did not have a spare pair.

The shepherd insisted that his work should be completed the same day. The shearer expressed his inability. When the shepherd insisted, he took a clay shard and started shearing the sheep with its sharp edges. Shearing without a shaving razor is a hazardous business.

The sheep did not like being sheared by a clay shard. The wool would not give up its roots in the body of the sheep. Some of them got hurt and started bleeding.

Shalakak was moved to pity. Also, he saw a business opportunity.

He spoke to the shearer, “What is your good name, friend?”

“I am called Shatir, Sir,” the shearer replied.

“That is a lovely name,” gushed Shalakak. He recalled the sage advice given by Will Durant in his ‘How to Win Friends and Influence People’: quote “A man’s name is to him the most beautiful sound in the English Language” unquote.

“And meaningful,” Shalakak continued. ”Shatir means shrewd, that is, worldly wise. Do you think this clay thing is your only option?” and he took out the shaving razor from his bag.

He opened the knife. In the sunlight the blade gleamed invitingly.

Shatir looked at the shaving blade with longing. “How much will you charge?” he enquired.

Shalakak saw that a deal was in the offing. He broke into verse.

“Why talk of pound, shilling and pence.

When did I talk of recompense?”

Shatir did not believe that you could have anything without paying for it. He asked Shalakak to name his price. Shalakak would not oblige him.

The argument went back and forth. When Shalakak found a no-go situation, he excused himself and went behind the shed as if looking for a place to pee.

He took out his mobile and dialled a number. Then he returned to his bench and awaited further developments.

Soon a ramshackle van trundled in. A tall man wearing a uniform came out. He addressed Shatir.

“I am from the SPCA. We have received a report that you are being cruel to these poor sheep. We will have to arrest you.”

Shatir looked at Shalakak. “Where have you kept my shaving razor?” he asked and winked at Shalakak.

Shalakak took out the razor and handed it over. Shatir started shearing the sheep with the razor. It was a smooth operation.

Shatir looked at the tall man in uniform. “Obviously, you have been misinformed.”

The man from SPCA looked at the razor, took it in his hand and felt the edge of the blade. It was super-sharp.

Then he got into his van and drove away

Shatir let off a sigh of relief. “Thank you”, he said to Shalakak.

Shalakak said with a beatific smile on his face, “I told you there is no charge.”

Now that Shatir had risen to the bait, Shalakak had just to wait for events to unfold. It did not take long.

At the third sheep, the razor broke.

“Oh, my God! What have you done? “ he barked at Shatir.

Shatir looked contrite. “It is not my fault,” he ventured.

“What do you mean? Whose fault is it then? Mine? ”Shalakak thundered.

“Possibly, it was an old razor.” said Shatir, hoping to escape the liability.

Shalakak nipped his attempt in the bud. “On the contrary,” he said,  “It was brand new. I had bought it only yesterday.”

Shatir sighed.  “You said there is no charge”, he pleaded, hoping to excite Shalakak’s pity.

Shalakak bared his teeth. “Obviously that quote was for use, not for damage. This is total, irreparable damage.”

“So how much will you spend to replace the blade? ”Shatir wanted to know.

Shalakak was good at bargaining. He told Shatir that the blade was frightfully expensive and Shatir would not be able to replace it. He asked for three sheep.

Shalakak sang:

“Give me back my razor blade

Or else three sheep be paid”.

They haggled for a while and finally settled for one sheep.

Shalakak picked out a fat little specimen and continued on his journey.

                                                  (3)

               Shalakak reached a degree college in the town. He was dog tired. He decided to take rest. He stretched himself on the soft grass and promptly fell asleep.

                   He was woken by the sound of people fighting. They were very angry. He opened one eye and listened to the barrage of words being exchanged.

                     What he gathered was this. The Football Association of the college was celebrating its silver jubilee. They had booked the college canteen for a sumptuous meal after the match.

                       The canteen manager had a problem. There was a lightning strike of the butchers in the town and meat was not available. So he was forced to serve a vegetarian meal.

                        The players were livid with rage. They could not visualize a sumptuous meal without a meat dish. They threatened to beat up the manager.

                         Shalakak could see that the situation was looking grim. Suddenly he realised that he could defuse the crisis and incidentally make a profit.

                          He got up and crept in close to the feuding footballers. “I have a suggestion to make,” he said.

                              They turned to him with anticipation. “What is the suggestion?” asked the captain.

                              “See. I have a sheep. I could make him available to you.  I realize that your need is greater than mine.”

                              The captain inspected the sheep carefully. He was satisfied. ”How much will you charge ?” he asked.

                              Shalakak was ready with his answer. “I know that you are short of cash. So I will not ask for money. Perhaps you could repay me in kind.”

                              “Kind as in kindness, I presume,” the captain joked.

                              “Well, we shall see after the feast. “ Shalakak wanted to investigate the possibilities before committing himself. The captain looked at Shalakak’s innocent face and trusted him. He did not know that he was dealing with an MBA.

                              The canteen manager was relieved at the manner in which a major crisis had been averted. If Shalakak had not been there, the manager might have been in hospital with multiple fractures. Footballers can be mighty dangerous when aroused!

                              The feast went on with lot of fun and frolic. Shalakak was also invited and had a highly satisfying meal.

                              Meanwhile, he kept his eyes and ears open. He noted that the store-room of the canteen was stacked with bags of rice. He sampled a few grains and found it to be basmati rice of the highest quality.

                              So when the captain and the manager met him after the dinner and enquired about the repayment in kind that Shalakak was talking of, he said that he would be satisfied with a quintal of the rice he had seen.

                              When the manager showed his reluctance to meet the demand, Shalakak asked for the sheep back.

                              He sang:

                              “Give me back my lovely sheep

                         Or else a quintal of basmati cheap.”

                              And he kept up the refrain till they capitulated.

                              So Shalakak got a quintal of the finest quality basmati rice. He was proud of his bargaining skills.

                              And Shalakak continued on his journey.

                                                                                          (4)

                              Shalakak had to hire a mule to carry the bag of basmati. They trudged along at a brisk pace till they reached a jhanjhghar, where a marriage was in progress. The barat had come and the groom and the bride had exchanged garlands.

                              The dinner was getting late. Shri Agarwal, the maternal uncle of the bride, who was in charge of the cooking, got impatient at the delay.

                              He called the caterer and asked him the reason why dinner was not being laid. The caterer said that an unfortunate development had taken place. The cook had spoilt the rice. And there was no more rice in the store. The shops had closed for the day. It was unthinkable to serve food without the rice. He was at wits’ end what to do.

                              Agarwal was debating how to respond to the situation when his son Avinash spoke up. “I don’t know whether this would help, dad, but I just saw outside a jackal with a mule. The mule is carrying a quintal of rice. I thought you might need rice so I stopped him. He is waiting outside.”

                              Agarwal did not wait to hear any more. He rushed outside, followed closely by the caterer and Avinash. Shalakak was sitting in a chair outside. The mule stood patiently close by. There was indeed a sack of rice on the mule’s back.

                              The caterer took out a handful of rice from the bag and smelt it. “Very good quality basmati”, he whispered to Agarwal. “Buy it.”

                              Agarwal accosted Shalakak, “I hope this rice is for sale.”

                              Shalakak scented a good business opportunity. If he bargained well, he could have a very profitable deal.

                              He put on his most innocent face. “I believe you need the rice. Take it. I am like a member of the family. I shall charge a reasonable amount only.”

                              Thus lulled into complacency, Agarwal told the caterer to take the mule inside and expedite the dinner. He invited Shalakak to dinner and asked Avinash to look after him.

                              Shalakak and Avinash went inside. And then the unthinkable happened. Shalakak had a look at the bride and immediately fell in love. He could not divert his gaze from the bride’s face, her figure, her finery. The more he saw her, the more smitten he was.

                              Avinash looked after him very well. He was taken to the bar that had been set up in a discreet corner of the shamiana. Avinash plied him with whisky and snacks. Shalakak went on drinking steadily till he was quite high.. He started stammering and talking some kind of jackalese.

                              Meanwhile the dinner was served and the rice was an unqualified success. The baratis were full of praise for the excellent fare that had been served to them.

                              When the dinner was over, Avinash thought it fit to discuss what Shalakak wanted in lieu of the rice. He asked him.

                              Shalakak gave a leer. “Frankly speaking, I won’t have any monetary recompense. If you can marry your sister to me…..” Shalakak proposed somewhat  diffidently.

                              Avinash was incredulous. “You are drunk. You do not know what you are saying. My sister is being married to a young man of her choice. He is a corporate executive with a five figure salary.”

                              Shalakak was unfazed. “I am no less. I have done MBA from IIM Ahmedabad. I hold the lucrative job of CEO (Night Operations) with the top property dealers in town. I am an ideal match.”

                              Before Avinash could stop him, he stated singing at the top of his voice:

                              “Give me back the bag of basmati

                         Or else marry the bride to me”

                         Avinash did not know how to handle him. Hearing the noise, his father came into the bar.

                              “What is he up to?” he demanded to know. “Can’t you keep him quiet?”

                              Avinash told him. Aggarwal advised him to ply Shalakak with more whisky and put him to sleep in one of the bedrooms at the back of the jhanjhghar.

                              Shalakak went on singing. Meanwhile, most of the baratis had   left. The marriage ceremony started in a special enclosure.

                              Avinash assured Shalakak that his father had agreed to let him marry his sister and he could proceed to the bedroom to celebrate his wedding night.

                              Shalakak lurched unsteadily to the bedroom where Avinash led him. By now, Shalakak was wholly sozzled. He asked Avinash for cigarettes.

                              Avinash got a pack and lit his first cigarette.

                              “Where is the bride?” Shalakak asked.

                                        “Coming, coming,” assured Avinash, hoping that Shalakak would fall asleep soon.

                              It was a cold winter night. Shalakak felt uncomfortable. He got under the quilt. Avinash tucked him in properly, so that he felt cosy.

                              Shalakak went on smoking steadily, eyes closed, dreaming of his ladylove. Avinash left, promising to send the bride soon.

                              Some children of the family had gathered outside the room and they were watching the fun from the door and windows.

                              Suddenly, the cigarette fell from Shalakak’s fingers. He had dozed off.

                              The cigarette fell on the quilt. The quilt started smoking. The room was filled with smoke. Shalakak inhaled the smoke and became unconscious.

                              After a while, the quilt caught fire. Shalakak felt the burning sensation and started turning and rolling over.

                              The children started singing:

                              “Oh, Mister Jackal, you are burning, turn to the left

                              Turn to the right, turn to the left.”

                              Shalakak would have burnt to death if Avinash had not come and poured several buckets of water on him.

                              But the imminent danger of premature death                                                                                                               destroyed the fumes in his brain. He suddenly felt himself reborn.

                              He realised that his MBA training had misled him. Life was not only about making money.

                              Avinash offered him the price of the rice. When he would not take it, he stuffed the notes into his pocket.

                              Then he took him downstairs, seated him on the mule and gave a stick in his hand.

                              The mule was fresh after its night’s rest. It set off at a brisk trot towards the Jackals’ Lair located in Bana Mohalla in downtown Srinagar.

                              And thus chastened by his adventures, Shalakak lived happily ever after.

                                                  *******************************