Chacha Rasheed's Big Decision!

Danish woke up before morning, and his heart felt as heavy as if a stone had been placed on his chest. The street below was still quiet, but he kept imagining Chacha Rasheed's voice coming from every window: I have proof! I have proof!

In the storeroom, Zib was already awake. He sat by the window, looking at his wrist-band. Four little moons were shining on it.

Four moons. Four nights.

Zib said very softly, “Ammi-Jaan, last night I filled the chand-pattar halfway. Half is still left. But my secret…” His voice stopped. Glowing drops came into his eyes.

Danish held his hand. “Zib, Chacha Rasheed will still be asleep. We will think of something.”

“But the photograph?” Zib asked. “The picture-box is with him. He will show everyone. Then everyone will say: alien! alien! Then how will I go to Golmol?”

Danish had no answer. He thought of his own Abu — Dubai was very far away, and no call had come for many days. The two of them were in the same boat: both missing someone very much.

When Ammi came for breakfast, worry was on her face, but her voice was calm. “Do not panic. Chacha Rasheed is a good man, only a little… enthusiastic. Do you remember today's word?”

Zib at once stood up straight. “Yes, Ammi Madam! Today's word is dosti!”

“Dosti means friendship,” Ammi said. “It means doing for someone what is difficult for yourself.”

Zib nodded, then fell into thought. “Dosti… is dosti like a samosa?”

“Yes!” Zib said. “You eat half the samosa, and you give half to your friend. And your friend gives half too. Then both tummies are full, and both hearts are full too! That is dosti, is it not?”

Ammi laughed. “Exactly right, Zib. But today it is Chacha Rasheed who will face the test of dosti.”

After breakfast a noise rose in the street. Danish looked out: Chacha Rasheed stood by his bicycle, camera around his neck, notebook in his hand, and neighbours gathering around him.

“Come! Come! Today I will show you all what nobody has ever seen!” Chacha Rasheed was saying. “Last night I saw blue light on the roof! And I took a photograph too! A real photograph of the alien!”

“Chacha, stop!” Danish ran into the street.

Zib ran after him too, wrapped in a blanket, like a very small ghost. Ammi hurried after them both.

Chacha Rasheed held the camera up. Joy was in his eyes, but tiredness lay under it too. “Danish, my boy, today I will become famous! The newspaper people will come! Everyone will say: Rasheed caught the alien!”

“Chacha, please,” Danish said. His voice was shaking. “Do not show that photograph. He… he is my friend.”

Just then Madam the cat came from somewhere and sat on Chacha Rasheed's notebook, as if she wanted to watch the show too. Chacha Rasheed pushed her away, but Madam sat down again.

But just as he was about to press the camera button, his hand stopped.

He remembered last night. The ladder had tilted, his foot hung in the air, and he was about to fall. Then blue light had held the ladder fast.

“You saved me?” he had asked at the time.

And the little boy had said, “I am not a bad alien. I am a school child.”

Chacha Rasheed looked at the camera's little screen. On it was Zib's face — clear, blue, with glowing hands.

Zib whispered from under the blanket, “Danish, shall I come out?”

“No!” Danish whispered back. “Ammi said no!”

But Zib lifted one corner of the blanket and said very softly, so softly that only Chacha Rasheed could hear, “Chacha, you were falling. I did not let you fall. Will you let me fall?”

Chacha Rasheed started. He looked around. Two big round eyes were watching him from under the blanket.

“Chacha,” Danish said, “you run after the truth, do you not? The truth is that Zib saved your life. If you show the photograph, people will come to catch him, and he will not be able to go home.”

Chacha Rasheed looked at the camera, at Danish, and at the eyes hidden under the blanket. A battle was going on in his face — on one side fame, on the other the blue light that had saved him.

“All my life I looked up at the sky,” he said. “Last night I believed we are not alone. But belief is not something to show. Belief is something to keep.”

He pressed the camera button. On the screen appeared the words: photograph deleted.

“What are you doing, Chacha?” a neighbour asked in surprise.

“I am deleting the photograph,” Chacha Rasheed said, and his voice was strong now. “All the photographs. There will be no proof left. Because the one who saved my life, I cannot sell him.”

Zib pushed the blanket away. Glowing drops were in his eyes. “Chacha, you deleted the photograph? My photograph?”

“I deleted it, my boy,” Chacha Rasheed said, placing his hand on Zib's head. “But I did not delete you. You will stay in my heart.” He wrote in his notebook: ALIEN = FRIEND. “Now I am the man who protects the alien!”

Danish caught Chacha Rasheed's hand. “Thank you, Chacha.”

“Do not say thank you,” Chacha Rasheed said. “You do not thank a friend. You feed a friend a samosa!”

Zib clapped happily. “Dosti! Samosa dosti! Today I learned two correct Urdu words — dosti and samosa!”

In the afternoon Zib's wrist-band made a soft sound — tin! tin! Four moons shone on it, and then a small round circle formed under one moon.

Zib looked at the band and grew serious. “The Golmol Gate will open four nights from now — the biggest moon night. That night I must go, and before that the chand-pattar must be fully charged.”

“Four days are left,” Danish said. “Only four days.”

Ammi looked at them both. “In four days we will fully charge the chand-pattar. And Chacha Rasheed is with us now. There is nothing to fear.”

In the evening Danish went to look at the ship under the mango tree. The ghanti-coil was in its place. Everything was ready, except the chand-pattar — half charged, half empty.

Zib came to him and began to hum the Golmol song very softly. “Danish, are you afraid?”

“A little,” Danish said honestly. “You are going, and…” He stopped.

“And your Abu is far away,” Zib said. “I know. When I remember my Ammi-Jaan, my tears glow. When you remember your Abu, your eyes do not glow, but you go quiet.”

Danish smiled and hugged him. “You are my best friend, Zib. After Golmol too.”

Ammi picked it up, and then her eyes lit up. “Danish! It is your Abu's call!”

Danish took the phone. Abu's voice came — warm, tired, but happy. “My boy! I am coming! I have got my leave. I am reaching in four days — on the biggest moon night!”

Danish's heart leapt with joy, and then suddenly stopped.

The same night the Golmol Gate would open. The same night Zib must go.

“Abu…” Danish's voice shook. “You… you are coming that very night?”

“Yes, my boy!” Abu laughed. “I thought I would meet you in the moonlight! Are you not happy?”

Danish looked at Zib. Zib looked at him. On Zib's wrist-band four moons were shining, and glowing drops were filling his eyes.

“Danish,” Zib whispered, “that night your Abu will come… and that same night I must go?”

In the phone, Abu's voice was coming, “My boy? My boy, why have you gone quiet?”

And Danish had no answer — his heart was being pulled in two directions: on one side Abu, returning home, and on the other Zib, leaving in four days.