Abdullah was a poor man. He lived in an age and place where being poor was his legacy and being a Muslim made sure he passed it on to the next generation. The typical rich Hindu landlords didn't hire Muslims then. They opted for those who were considered to be of the lower classes that are now referred to as Scheduled Caste and Tribes. Now, Muslims couldn't hire Muslims and thereby help their sufffering brothers cause they had no work to offer and no money either.

However, my grandfather was no typical rich Hindu landlord. He was Hindu, alright. He was also a landlord. But the moment he got married he discovered himself on the streets without a penny or a house. He had married a Hindu woman but from a different caste. That was a sin and a most grievous mistake even then. His family threw him out. But he loved my grandmother and she loved him. They began their life from the scratch. In a makeshift hut.

By the time, my grandmother had given birth to her 4^th child, in a total of 11 to be born, they had moved into a decent house, and were well enough to have three meals a day. By the time she delivered their 7^th child, my grandfather was the owner of 3 acres of productive plantation and a large expanse of paddy field. He had his own bullocks, and cows. My grandmother had her share of goats and hen, and a backyard garden that boasted of all kinds of vegetables one could think of. They were a hard working couple and had made it all happen with their own two hands.

So when Abdullah moved in to the neighbourhood, with his wife and 6 children, all in various stages of impoverishment, my grandfather didn't think twice about offering him work at his fields. Abdullah was to engage in what men in villages did mostly in those days - work in the fields, and take care of the bullocks. His wife became my grandmother's help, though her movement was strictly restricted to the backside of our house. Their kids hung around with her, and ate whatever was available in the kitchen. One proper meal, at night, was on the house.

This arrangement, however beneficial for both Abdullah and my grandfather, was not taken lightly by the Panchayat. But not one to bow under pressure, my grandfather did pretty much as he pleased, and did it successfully too. Abdullah was a grateful man. He served my grandfather most loyally.

When my grandfather died, all his kids had been educated and mostly employed across the country. Abdullah's kids had grown up and taken his job with my grandfather. Abdullah didn't have many dreams. To live and die with a full stomach was the best life he could imagine of. By the time he died, rumours were drifting in to the village that anyone could go to Persia and become as wealthy as a Sheikh. It was said that in Persia one could simply pick up gold nuggets off the streets. Even though most Muslim kids never had formal education, they were pretty good at Arabic from their visits to Madrasas – their religious school. Armed with the language of their God and dreams for the first time in their lives, many of them started leaving for this new land that seemed to the a heaven on Earth. Whether anyone believed the stories of rich sheikhs, kings with thousands of harems, golden palaces and uncountable wealth, Persia proved to be manna from heaven for a community that was destroying itself in a time that offered them no consideration.

Times changed. The wheels of fortune kept turning. Many summers came and went by.

One fine morning as my father sat in the front portico of our house and as usual was wondering about the rising prices and all, a strange stranger walked into our house. The first thing I noticed was the large golden wristwatch that hung like dead weight on his sunburned left wrist. Somehow, I assumed, that explained why he leaned towards his left while walking. There were two large gold rings on his left hand and one on his right. A massive gold chain hung around his neck, and as if to oblige the curious public, he had generously left the buttons till his belly open offering a perfect display of it. A huge gold-framed goggles adorned half his face, and the rest of it was smiling at us benevolently. The tight fitting polyester red shirt with large collars were the 80s fashion statement. I had seen the pictures of film heros posing in them on street side posters.

I and my sister immediately took up strategic position behind the front door, hiding ourselves with the curtain and leaned over to see what transpired between our dad and the rich man. Of course, even as kids, our little minds had conclusively arrived at that fact - this man was rich! No one in our village wore so much gold. Plus he was dressed the way rich people in the cities dress in movies. Then, there was the most telltale sign of wealth – he smelt of perfume! The whiff of that strong fragrance hit my nostrils and instantly I was transported into a world of fast cars and beautiful women in trousers, just like in the movies. This guy had to be rich, I was sure.

I don't know much of what happened in the portico after that. My mother, as usual, dragged us both and once again reminded us how kids from good families behaved. Well, we were just curious. Kids are. But somehow parents don't seem to get it. Anyway, after about 20 minutes of so, he left. There was my dad's canned laughter, which compared to his booming displays of mirth, sounded like the noise of a shivering tin sheet. My mother had served him tea and biscuits. When he was gone, my mom and dad talked excitedly, which of course, brought me and my sister back from the forced exile and to the portico.

There was a plastic bag in my dad's hand, and I realised that was the reason for my parents joy.

I remember the contents of that plastic bag and wonder what they signified. They underlined that times had indeed changed. That the wheel of fortune had forged ahead for sure. The contents underlined my dad's poverty. It once again stamped on my forehead the mark of shame – deprived! In a time when its a crime to be poor, it marked me a criminal for no fault of mine.

The bag contained a shirt piece and two pant pieces. Abdullah's grandson had come a long way. He had gifted them to my dad, who had accepted it, greatly relieved that he no longer had to worry where to find the money or material to buy his soon to be college going son something decent to wear. We were just so poor that it deprived but hurt more. I don't know why, but the look in my father's eyes brought tears to mine. There was relief in them. Like every other time when sadness of a helpless kind refused to stay inside and threatened to burst into the open, I ran into the bathroom, closed the door and turned on the tap before letting myself be taken over by the fury against my fate. I can almost remember every single time I have cried in my life. There have been only 7 such occasions.

We had to borrow money to stich the shirt and trousers. I wore them for two years. I had nothing else to wear. Abdullah's grandson was a rich man by our village standards. He was now in Persia. My grandfather would have been proud of him. But he still wouldn't have accepted that gift, I know that much.