Saddam veered his gaze behind for one last time and a stuttered breath quietly escaped his chest. As he kept walking towards the station, a tinge of hatred lingering inside his heart perturbed Anwar. Does he actually hate those older schoolboys? They mocked Anwar incessantly but do they matter anymore? Saddam is never going to return. It was the school that made Anwar into Saddam. And Saddam will be left behind, along with the memories of this school.

Although this nickname Saddam was relatively new, it became instantly popular in the village. And Anwar did enjoy the sudden attention apart from the times when Ammi would throw her usual tantrum, “Anwar, it is time for lunch. Where are you going at this hour?” While walking towards station Anwar tried to steer his thoughts clear. It is time that he takes a vital decision and severs all ties with Saddam. He is Anwar and no one else.

Since Abbu left for Mumbai, the train station has been Anwar’s solace. There is only one train that stopped at this obscure station. It did not torridly race across like other trains, shattering the meshes of long deserted afternoons. Anwar waits for his Abbu to return although he knows that Abbu will not head home before monsoons. To Anwar, the moist smell of monsoon is reminiscent to homecoming of Abbu. The lone train halts with a screeching metallic noise and a chestful sigh of relief. Abbu leaps down with a broad smile glowing on his face. He never fails to find Anwar. Anwar relives this visual repeatedly in his mind - Abbu would walk towards him, heavy bags lugging down from his shoulder. He would come close and run his fingers lovingly through Anwar’s weary hairs. Anwar would pretend to be irritated but would savour every bit of Abbu’s warmth. He would intently listen to the anecdotes shared by Abbu, as they headed home.

Anwar flopped down on the wooden bench and heaved a deep sigh. His eyes shimmered with the sunlight trickling through leaves overhead. This lacklustre Neem tree is the sole provider of shade to this lone station bench. The station had no announcements for trains and was devoid of shops and beggers like other stations. Sometimes there will be an odd vagabond sleeping on this bench in the unconditional accompaniment of stray canines. The stationmaster became significant due to his conspicuous absence. To find him was a task for even the village headman. And precisely for these reasons, Anwar felt at peace at this station. He could talk to himself for as long as he wanted. At least till the time, Ammi’s voice would ring inside his conscience, “Anwar, it is already late! Why do you always trouble me so much?” A distracted Anwar would lift himself up and trudge towards home, most unwillingly.

This morning when Anwar spoke to Abbu, he promised to get him a new mobile phone and a geared cycle. Calling Abbu twice a day has become a ritual for Anwar - once before school and then again at night just before slipping into the bed next to Ammi. At times Ammi would talk to Abbu about day-to-day chores, which never intrigued Anwar. Ammi never showed any curiosity regarding Anwar’s conversations with his Abbu. She would seldom glance at Anwar while working. Sometimes she will quip, “Anwar, once you are done, you need to go and charge the phone from the market.” Anwar dreaded going to the market and begging the shopkeepers, whom he rarely knew, to charge his phone.

This mobile phone was the only one to turn to when Anwar wanted to complain. When he decided to take the phone along to school, Ammi resisted vehemently. And the very next day was the fateful day when Anwar reincarnated as Saddam. Although the phone was a means to communicate only with Abbu, that day Anwar ended up calling the Block Officer. His numbers were painted with thick red colour on the school wall, flowery decorations marking its border.

Abbu had a hearty laugh when Anwar expressed, “I want to talk to you every day, at least twice a day. I want a mobile phone!” That time Abbu was visiting after six months. He was complaining about the quality of food he had to eat from the dhaba next to his chawl. In the chawl, Abbu was sharing a small room with five other people from the village. Anwar knew these men by name as they had visited Anwar’s home once. Abbu worked as an embroider for a designer company. Their workshop, where they worked for over twelve hours a day, was not too far from the chawl. Abbu even worked on Sundays. “What to do with Sundays? It is better to be busy with work,” he said as Ammi complained to him about not coming home often. The phone was a great asset for Anwar but never as priceless as Abbu’s board smile when looked at Anwar lovingly.

Abbu used to have a tailoring shop in the same market where Anwar went to charge the mobile phone. The market was a rather haphazard row of makeshift shops with electric connection jutting out from all directions. Those days were so much sweeter for Anwar. Abbu used to leave home every day at eleven and would be back before seven in the evening. Then Ammi did not have these shining utensils and gas connection. She used to struggle every day with the mud chulha. Nonetheless, Anwar was happier. Abbu would prepare him for school and at night feed him with his own hands before putting him off to sleep.

One sudden morning the news of Abbu’s departure hit Anwar like a bolt from the blue. He could not go to school. He plastered himself to Abbu. Ammi did not utter a single word. Abbu assured Anwar that he would talk to him every day. After three months Abbu returned home with a mobile phone. Abbu always kept his word.

Those three months were insufferable for Anwar. He could not come to terms with the fact that Abbu is not around. Ammi tried her best. She has always been a woman of few words. She was the quietest person Anwar knew in this village and the most beautiful one too. She talked the most during those three months. She clearly sensed the hollow in Anwar and tried to compensate through her words and gestures. It intrigued Anwar. With these warm thoughts on his mind, Anwar caressed the dog lying next to him on the station bench. He chuckled to himself as he figured out Ammi’s strategy.

School was the place, where Anwar wants to realize his dreams. He wants to study well and not end up being a daily labour. But he was irritated with the incessant brawls. They were a regular affair in the school but neither the headmaster nor the teachers bothered to solve these brawls. They only intervened when these interrupted their discussion over some newspaper headline or a gossip received on mobile phone or their game sessions. Anwar despised these game sessions. The teachers would arrange a few pieces of stones on the table and play all day long. Anwar knew nothing about this game but it tested his patience. He himself intervened and stopped several brawls. His classmates and juniors somehow always respected him. But that day it went out of hand. Neither Dukhi nor Arti paid any heed to Anwar. They almost tore each other’s clothes apart. Anwar knew that unlike him Dukhi and Arti had only two sets of clothes, which were these uniforms. That day Anwar could not resist calling the numbers painted inside the flowery borders. He had no option. But this came at a cost, at the cost of Anwar’s reincarnation as Saddam.

Anwar called the Block Officer, who was initaially irritated but was gradually taken aback by the fact that a standard seven student had called to complain about the indiscipline of teachers. As if his number on the wall just a mere decorum and never to be dialled. Shortly, he reached the school. Anwar felt that maybe there would be an end to these brawls for once and all. But the Block Officer turned out to be no different than the teachers. He just joined their game with a nonchalant smile. And that was the precise moment Anwar was named Saddam by headmaster Sharma. “Beware of him”, the Block Officer quipped before leaving the school premises. He ran his fingers lovingly through Anwar’s hair. Abbu did the same. Anwar hated the Officer.

The next time Saddam called the District Officer. It was winter. The mornings wore a veil of fog and the northern wind waved chilly shivers through the village. It was time to distribute sweaters for the children but the school seemed reluctant. Although Anwar had two sweaters, he was unable to wear them thinking about his ill classmates Dukhi and Arti. They had no clothes apart from their uniforms. In his last visit, Abbu bought two warm colourful sweaters for Anwar and a lovely finer one for Ammi. Anwar called the District Officer to asked when could he send the sweaters to the school, as the children needed them. The very next day sweaters were distributed. This time the headmaster did not take it lightly and made that obvious during the morning assembly. But Anwar could not care less. That night he called Abbu exuberantly and narrated his achievement in detail. The sudden turn of events left Ammi flustered but Anwar was gleaming with joy.

Next was the District Magistrate. It was not pre-planned; in fact, Abbu was the one who suggested Anwar to call the District Magistrate. Anwar wanted to make this call before the arrival of Abbu during the rains. He was returning after six long months, the longest he stayed away since he left for Mumbai. Anwar came out of the classroom with an excuse of going to the toilet. He switched on his phone and called the District Magistrate. He talked in a firm tone – “Our teachers never take classes. They are busy playing games during school hours. I want to go to Mumbai, with my Abbu. How would I survive?” The Magistrate patiently heard Anwar without uttering a word but he could feel that the Magistrate was nodding in agreement.

The Magistrate came for a surprise inspection the very next day. He held a long meeting with the teachers. Anwar tried to fathom what transpired in that meeting but was unable to arrive at any immediate conclusion. The Magistrate called him into the office during lunch hours. He was sitting on the floor. Anwar walked in, touched his feet and stood in a composed manner at a distance. The Magistrate gestured Anwar to sit next to him. He seemed to be a nice man. Anwar spoke a lot, about Abbu, Ammi and his future plans. The Magistrate listened to him patiently and blessed Anwar before he left.

Due to the recent activities, Saddam had become a popular name in the school but after the Magistrate’s visit, he instantly became a celebrity. The younger children started calling him Saddam bhaiyya to which Anwar would gently smile back. Some older boys ridiculed him but it did not bother Anwar. The classes have become slightly regular but Anwar is yet to be convinced. When Abbu called that night, Anwar expressed that he does not want to study in that school anymore and wants to accompany him to Mumbai. Ammi refuted strongly, “Don’t even think of leaving the school. Abbu is not toiling in Mumbai for you to become a daily labour.” Anwar was unsure what he was missing more, his studies or Abbu.

The constant mocking was unable to distract Anwar from his fight for a better school for one and all. One day the students were asked to disperse as the teachers were leaving for a meeting to the block office. The Saddam in Anwar was rekindled. He excused himself behind the garb of stomachache and did not hesitate to call the Block Office. “Who would teach us if you call the teachers for meetings during school hours?” he complained. Soon the teachers came returned to school. There was no longer ridicule, not even mockery. Anwar was deeply affected by the rage and irritation he felt in the sparse words of the teachers.

Anwar’s exam was due in three months, so was Abbu’s return. Anwar had made up his mind to leave this school. This time he had asked Abbu for a geared bicycle. The nearest secondary school was a bit too far to walk to. Abbu agreed in one condition. Anwar has to do well in his exams. As always Anwar was prompt with his reply, “Abbu, everyone passes in our school. I will too. Don’t you worry!”

Anwar felt that his exams were satisfactory. He was certain that he would pass. Finally, the day arrived when all the students had to collect their transfer certificates. As usual Headmaster Sharma arrived late. He glanced at Anwar and quipped, “We have a party after school today.” He lifted a big packet to affirm his words. For the last few days, Anwar was contemplating to say sorry to his teachers. He was not repentant but he wanted to express his feelings to them, especially to Sharma Sir, who was the one to name him Saddam. And Sharma Sir was also the one who had to bear with the repercussions of Saddam’s phone calls. Anwar was not able to concentrate on what Sharma Sir was saying. His mind was craving an opportune moment to talk to Sir, which seemed like an impossible task with so many students around. Anwar was a little apprehensive about being ridiculed further. He wanted to say sorry only when no one was around. He also wanted the blessings of his teachers, as he was about to begin a new chapter of his life. Anwar tried hard to focus on what Sir is saying. Did he say there is a party after school?

It was the same table, around which the teachers gathered for their chats and games. But today there was a cake on that table, soft drinks and packs of wafers as accompaniments. “I will go to secondary school. Abbu has promised to get me a cycle with gear.” Anwar said sheepishly while touching Sharma Sir’s feet. He wanted to ease the awkward situation. He went to all the teachers and did pranam. But no one touched his head as a gesture of blessing. They were busy with the cake. Maybe they gave their blessings silently, Anwar consoled himself.

“Thank you for the party, Saddam.” The room echoed with laughter as Sharma Sir uttered these words. Gupta Madam almost choked on the big piece of cake that she was biting into. Anwar stood dumbstruck. Another round of laughter filled up the teachers’ room. This time Gupta Madam did not laugh. Clearly, she was not willing to risk it again. 

“Saddam, this party was to celebrate this jubilant occasion of you leaving the school. There will be no more phone calls.” Sharma Sir added. Saddam could not hear anything apart from a deafening noise, which was gradually numbing his mind. Driven by an unknown power, he turned back silently and started walking away, far away from Saddam and closer to Anwar.