Qasim

Part 2

Crimson rays of sunlight shone through the windows, cascading past the glass and falling on the young boy's face. And another problem was added to Qasim's already filled plate.
In the morning, when the inspector saw his servant passed out in the verandas beside dirty boots, he kicked him hard in the belly, yelling, "He's laying here like a damned pig, and I was thinking my boots will be completely cleaned up!...Pig!...Qasim!"
"Sir! Coming, Sir!", was all that escaped his lips, perspiration clung to his temples, his breaths were ragged, cold dread slowly started to seep through his bones.
Comprehending the delicacy of the circumstance, he neglected the sore pain in his belly and clutched the brush in his small hands.
"I fell...asleep, Sir... I'll do...do it now" His voice quavered as he tried to explain his reasoning. He polished the shoes as fast as his will could, and in vain, tried to cease the trembling of his hands. He folded his ragged quilt and ascended a flight of stairs to put it in the attic.
"Qasim!"
"Coming, Sir!"
Qasim rushed down the steps, taking two at a time.
"We're having guests today, rinse the dishes well, wash the floor,...dust the chairs, tables, tapestries, I want every corner of the guest room shining clean, got it? There's a freshly chiselled dagger on my table, don't touch that!... I'll be going to work now, remember to get it all done in two hours."
"Alright, Sir."
When the inspector left, Qasim began cleaning the kitchen. After agonisingly long and exhausting forty minutes, Qasim completed the chores of the kitchen then, picking up a mop and a brush, he strode towards the guest room.
The mop was still clutched tight in his grip, when his brain started playing tricks on him, a dreadful scenario began to dance over his vision. Hallucinating due to exhaustion, he glanced around to find his surroundings occupied by racks and racks of crockery. Plates, dishes and pots everywhere. The wind slapped harshly against his skin. In a corner, lay a pile of ashes that whirled with the wind, circling Qasim. He stood there, dazed to the core.
In an instant, the scenario turned scarlett, chaotic, macabre. Crimson rays fell on the crockery. Blood begin to pool out of the hardwood floor, brimming through Qasim's bare toes. Horror washed over Qasim, squeezing his eyes shut, he gave his head a hard shake, waking himself from his morbid state.
"Yes, Sir, will be done!", murmuring the mantra, he commenced his prior assigned job.
A while later, another nightmare consumed his vision. This time, young children, he saw, about his age, were playing. A strong wind blew past them, accompanied by the appearance of a horrific Ogre. One by one, the enormous monster swallowed all the kids, and it was in that moment that Qasim realized the uncanny resemblance of the Ogre to his master, except for its size. The Ogre burped, causing Qasim's inwards to cringe.
He was running out of time and had yet to clean the massive room. Waking himself from the trance, he continued brushing the duster over the chairs.
"Guests are visiting today, Lord knows how much crockery I'll have to clean up... and sleep! This stupid urge is having the good of me", a pause, "I can't do this... I just can't"
While thinking out loud, he was dusting the things laid on his master's long table, right then, from his peripherals, he caught a glimpse of an unsheathed dagger... the same dagger his master had warned about prior. It's chiselled tip gleamed in the dim light from the undraped windows.
He had yet to take a closer look at the dagger that phrases started to escape his mouth, spilling like wildfire, "Knife! Sharp knife!...This can end my troubles!"
Without contemplating any further, he snatched the dagger and swept it over his pointer finger... now, he knew, he'd be spared cleaning the crockery... and sleep, the beautiful, tranquil slumber, wasn't afar from his grip.
Scarlett streams trickled down the boy's finger, but in fear's stead, he watched the blood with downright fascination.
"Sleep, sleep... beautiful sleep!", He sang.
After a short while, he ran over to his master's wife, who was sat in her bedroom, occupied by her own chores. Qasim gestured towards her, inclining his scarlett coated finger... "Look, madam!"
"Oh, Qasim! What have you done! You played with your master's dagger, didn't you?" She solded.
"I was just cleaning the table, madam... it just happened" He sputtered, not bothering to conceal the chuckle that nearly left his throat.
"What's so funny? Come here, pig, let me wrap it with a bandage... but who is going to wash the dishes now? Your father?"
Qasim, kept grinning at his victory. After getting bandaged, Qasim rushed back to the guest room.
He cleaned the several drops of blood that had dripped on the table and happily completed all the work. He was finally delighted. "The cook will have to rinse the crockery, now,... why wouldn't he? What do you wager, mister parrot?"
Qasim cheerfully conversed with the little parrot that was perched inside a round cage.
At night, the guests visited and left, the Kitchen was cosy, greasy pots and dishes covered in gravy were lined up on every corner his eyes swept.
The Inspector, seeing Qasim's wounded finger, lashed out like a storm and Qasim heard curses he had never heard in his life before, but nevertheless spared Qasim...probably because, Qasim reckoned, once his own finger was pierced by a pen's nip.
Having no dishes to clean that night, Qasim cheerfully hit the sack. The same went for four consecutive nights.
When his finger almost healed, the trouble approached, falling over his head once again.
"Qasim! Go wash your master's socks and shirt!"
"Alright, Madam"
"Qasim! This floor looks dirty. Go grab a bucket of water and clean it up!"
"Yes, Coming, Sir!"
"Qasim! This mirror is tacky to touch... rinse it with salt water!"
"Yes, Sir!"
"Qasim! The parrot's cage looks nasty, why don't you clean it!?"
"Right away, madam"
"Qasim, go wash the stairs!"
"Yes, Sir!"
"Qasim! Run and bring some yogurt!"
"Right away, Sir!"
The next six days, Qasim kept hearing the same commandments. He was fed up of the continuous torture that was being inflicted upon him. Each day, he had to work from dawn to almost midnight, 4 am in the morning and he was to wake to serve tea. All of it was intolerable for a boy of such age.
One morning, while cleaning the inspector's table, the same table in the guest room, his hand innately caressed the dagger, resulting in an even deeper cut this time.
Inspector and his wife were enraged by his reckless stunt, thus, as persecution, he was starved the following night. But Qasim, being himself, was still happy at the triumph, even at the cost of a night's meal.
A small cut on the finger, and relief from a mountain of crockery, the idea sounded nothing short of appealing.
A few days later, his finger healed. The shower of chores started once again. For 20 days, he was made work like slaves. Meanwhile, Qasim planned to do something again; to harm himself somehow, to get rid of at least some of the work, but to his disconcert, the dagger was no longer perched atop the table and the kitchen knives were blunt.
One day, the cook fell sick, due to his leave, Qasim had to persist in the kitchen most of the day.
Often, chopping vegetables, sometimes, kneading the dough and frequently, took the duty of feeding coal to the grate. From dawn till midnight, the same words rang in his ears.
"Qasim, do this! Qasim do that!"
The cook remained absent for two consecutive days... Qasim's young body and will were overwhelmed, but, other than to complete the chores, what options were accessible?
Another morning, his master ordered him to clean his wardrobe, which to his surprise, contained numerous sharp objects. Whilst cleaning whatever the wardrobe withheld, his gaze fell on a shaving blade. Without contemplating, he clutched the blade, wrapping his tiny fingers around it tightly. The blade, being extremely sharp, cut a gash too cavernous.
Qasim tried in vain, to cease the bleeding. Blood streamed down his fingers, painted his hand scarlett. He strode to his master's wife, as fast as he could manage.
"Madam, my hands came in contact with one of master's blades."
When master's wife saw Qasim's hand wounded for the third time, she understood the ordeal.
Silently, she straightened up and bandaged Qasim's hand.
"Qasim, you can't stay here anymore"
"Why, madam?"
"That's for me to know and you to figure out", her lips pinched into a thin line, "ask your master."
Qasim turned pale, his eyes widening at the mention of his master. Around 4 pm, the inspector returned. After he was apprised of what Qasim had done, he summoned him immediately, rage dripped off his voice.
"Cutting your fingers every day, huh? I see there's something fishy?"
Qasim's body went rigid, his blood turning cold.
"The likes of you, stupid servant! Do you take us for fools! Think that we're blind?... Pack your belongings and shoo away! There's no room for you here!" He roared.
"But... But, Sir..."
"Are you deaf? Get the hell out of here, you won't get a penny out of your remaining salary... I don't want to hear anything else!"
Qasim stormed out of the room, tears turning his eyes misty, his vision blurry. Taking a final glance at the parrot that was perched quietly in its cage. The parrot mirrored Qasim's mood, peculiarly silent.
Winding up his belongings, he descended a flight of stairs. All of a sudden, a thought chased his vacant mind. Turning on his heels, he ran back, to farewell his master's wife.
"Goodbye, madam... I'm leaving this place forever."
Saying the last words, he left.