The Rooster

Zaffar Mian was a contented man.

His little piece of land had yielded enough crops to maintain his family. Being a man of frugal disposition, he had only one wife and just four children. The eldest, his son Iqbal, was already fourteen and almost ready to join him in the fields.

Bakri Eid was days away. He could not afford a goat, of course, but he did have something else.

A rooster.

It was a magnificent Rooster, with a huge plumage, raucous sound, and a randy disposition. It ruled over no less than ten hens, and impregnated them regularly.

However, it was getting old, past its prime. Zaffar Mian had already procured a replacement stud, a young rooster.

Now it was time to convert the aging rooster into tangri kababs and biriyani.

Zaffar Mian went to the chicken coop and extracted the old rooster. It crowed angrily, possibly for having been deprived of female company for some time.

Zaffar Mian was about to do a final inspection about the rooster’s suitability for conversion to kabab, when a shadow fell over him.

It was Ashraful Rahman, the local constable.

“Adab, Adab, Zaffar Mian” said the constable.

“Adab, Huzur” was all that poor Zaffar could say.

“Very nice rooster you have, I see. I want it. What is its price ?”

The last sentence was not said in any seriousness. After all, the Constable never ever paid for anything he took from the villagers, did he ?

This time there was an exception.

Zaffar rebelled.

“Three Rupees, Sarkar”, he said.

“Hmm – seems a bit expensive. I will pay two rupees”.

“Apologies, Sarkar, not less than three”. insisted Zaffar Mian.

Ashraful Rahman, the Constable, was astounded. Not only was this yokel demanding money for a mere chicken, he was actually sticking to his price !

Well, this insolence will be dealt with in due time, the Constable thought. Meantime, the rooster looked to be not less than three, maybe nearly four, pounds in weight – worth five Rupees in the bazaar. The hafta of five rupees he had just collected from the market was warming his pocket.

“All right, all right”, said the Constable, “here’s three Rupees”.

Ashraful Rahman tied the rooster, upside down, to the handlebars of his bicycle and rode off, thinking how he would teach Zaffar Mian a lesson for his insolence.

Poor Zaffar was left desolate.

Ashraful Rahman’s reveries were rudely interrupted by the loud horn of the old Ford Model A which transported the Daroga, Haniful Aslam.

The Constable hurriedly jumped off his bicycle and delivered a parody of a salute to the Daroga, the most powerful Police Officer in Sub-Division, the veritable Lord and Master of the area, barring the never to be seen Sub-Inspector.

The Daroga descended from his vehicle.

“Selam, Huzur”, the Constable said.

“Hmmm, what do we have here ?” asked the Daroga.

“Nothing at all, Huzur, just a scrawny chicken I bought at the market”.

“Not scrawny at all, I find. Quite plump and juicy”, said the Daroga.

“If you say so, Huzur”, was all that Ashraful Rahman managed to say.

“I will take it”, said the Daroga. Out of sheer politeness, assured that the lowly Constable would not accept money, the Daroga added “How much ?”

To his amazement and consternation, the Constable said “Five Rupees, Huzur”.

The Daroga could not believe his ears. What audacity from a mere Constable ? He expects money from a Daroga for a mere chicken ? This has to be dealt with. In due time, of course.

The Daroga’s younger Begum was the daughter of the Head Cook of the Mymansingh Zamindar’s Palace. The rooster’s robust legs would make lovely tangri kababs in Choti Begum’s hands !

“All right”, said the Daroga and handed over five Rupees with a surly look that said “I will settle with you later”.

The struggling rooster went into the old Ford, its legs still tied. Its raucous screams were music to the Daroga’s ears as he dreamt of the kababs, some tikkas, maybe, and afterwards..

Upon reaching home, he summoned his wives and handed over the rooster, explaining his ideas about kababs and tikkas, though not about the afterwards.., not in the presence of Badi Begum.

The Daroga went for his bath in the pond with great contentment and anticipation. However, his bath was rudely disturbed by screams from both Begums.

“It escaped !!!!”

The Daroga extricated himself from the pond with some difficulty and rushed to assess the situation.

When the string tying the rooster’s legs had been cut, prior to its halal be-heading, the cheeky bird had pecked the Choti Begum and run off.

The Daroga shouted and yelled, but there was no way a rooster could be found, let alone caught, in the dwindling light of dusk.

The Daroga was forced to content himself with fish and rice for dinner. The sniveling of Choti Begum at her failure, and the obvious joy of Badi Begum at the same event, did not add to the happiness of the Daroga. And there was no afterwards..

Meanwhile, Zaffar Mian was sitting pensively in his little courtyard, puffing on his hookah. Three Rupees was small compensation for a magnificent rooster and the possible wrath of the Constable. A poor Eid it will be, he thought.

“Crwwwwwwwww”

Zaffar jumped up. What was this sound ?

It was the rooster. It had come home to its master, or more likely the hens.

Zaffar Mian escorted the rooster to its coop.

Eid was splendid at Zaffar Mian’s house, with kababs and biriyani. After all, his wife was a great cook, too.