He was startled. He readjusted his glasses. The corners of his fat drooping lips, coated with layers of sealing wax like paste from his incessant pan-chewing, suddenly fluttered like the flesh of a newly slaughtered goat. He understood my attempt to trick him. Realizing that this community-relationship would cost him dearly, he plainly lied his way out of my trap, and banking on his favorite expletive (“What!”) answered, “I from Karachi—what!”
“Are you ever going to come straight, man?”
“What can I say, mishter? You people using force on me. I told you. Come day after tomorrow. Try other print. Will be thousands times better.”
“But this print is so hazy that nothing except our ties are visible. The next might become a little bit better, but it will never be perfect,” Saeed said, disappointed. “There is hardly any hope!”
“Mishter, give it try. I make it really good—what!”
“Well, it’s the same old story. No shopkeeper ever finds fault with his wares, and the whole world is yellow to a jaundiced person. Come on, man, be reasonable.” Saeed was still intent on bringing the photographer round with politeness, but I was enraged by the continuous cawing of the man.
“Stop this nonsense and return our money. We didn’t give you an advance for this kind of rip-off.”
He didn’t bother to answer me but kept busy with his retouching.
“Well then, what will it be?” I tried to get a final word from him but Saeed pulled me back by the shoulders. He moved forward and said sternly, “Mister, you’ll have to take the picture again!”
The photographer’s petty-mindedness came to the surface. He threw his brush-holding hand in the air, describing a curve with it, and said, “Oh, yes? Why I take the picture again?”
“Because you have spoiled the earlier one.”
“Who says I spoil it? Are you a photographer—what?” he hissed loudly.
“And are you? You who don’t even know whether a picture will turn out well or fuzzy?”
“In Firdaus Cafeteria no photographer can be taking clearer picture than this.”
“Why not?”
“Because ice-factory wall shadow and because on back wall was a creeper.”
“But was your brain asleep at that time? Why didn’t you warn us?”
“Oh, stop my brain-hammering. Come day after tomorrow and try second print.”
“And who will be responsible if the second one turned out just as awful?”
“I am not. You think that also bad!”
“Are you out of your mind? We haven’t been bitten by a mad dog to go bothering a photographer if he takes a good picture.” I couldn’t take any more of this arguing. I pushed Saeed away and moved near the photographer and said, “You finish your job honestly or you’ll have to deal with the whole University crowd in your studio.” Then I announced my decision as categorically as I could, “You will have to take the picture again and we shall not pay you an extra penny. That’s it.”
Shah Ji, who had been quietly watching all these goings-on, said, “This dolt doesn’t give a damn, does he.”
