Silent Prayer

My work as a cab driver is hard but not without compensation. The hours are long but not necessarily boring. In between passengers I have time to work out in my mind the outlines of amusing stories I like to write for the enjoyment of my family and friends. I accidentally left one of these on the back seat a few weeks ago. A bookish type passenger read it and suggested I submit it for publication. Thus encouraged, I sent it to the editor of our community magazine. I felt that it was good to start at the bottom and establish a publishing record before attacking the appropriate venues for my literary work. Another positive in the job is that the passengers are often interesting. I serve people in all walks of life from all corners of the world. Businessmen traveling alone can be a drag because as soon as the seatbelt is fastened, blackberry comes out and they are connecting to the bosses or the bossed with the results of the latest meeting. It is funny how they feel free to discuss the most confidential matters completely oblivious of two ears in the front taking in everything. If they think that the cabbies are bound by some code of ethics, no one told me about it. But I do feel honour bound not to broadcast the latest twists in the hot takeover battles although I am not beyond whispering the critical details in well heeled ears, for appropriate tip of course. As for benefiting from such information by indulging in stock market activity, I keep away from it. Firstly it is illegal to trade on confidential information; secondly I don’t have any money left after paying for the gas.

A few weeks ago, all these considerations were thrown out of the passenger side window. Two fellows with loaded not so brief cases hailed me and jumped in giggling to themselves. The cell phones came out and both started talking whether to their clients or bosses, I couldn’t tell. With both talking at the same time it was hard to make out what they were saying. It seemed important and I strained my ears without appearing indiscrete. I did not understand the details but this much was clear: They had just negotiated a deal which would give the bondholders of a company in receivership full value for their money instead of twenty five cents in the dollar the bonds were trading at. The opportunity to quadruple the money in a few weeks looked too good to pass. Only problem was that old cliché: you need money to make money. After depositing my informants at the airport, I parked the car at a remote taxi stand where I could think with little chance of interruption. The owner of the taxi company was a gambler and spent all his time checking his portfolio. However, he was a skinflint. He would use the information, but he wouldn’t even thank me let alone share the profits. I knew that Jamila, my wife, had been saving for a trip home. But she never told me where she secreted the money and there was no way I could find out without leaving telltale signs. The only possibility was Alibaba, the owner of the pawn shop in the community. According to rumours Alibaba lent you the money at hundred percent interest and ten percent fees to be paid in advance. He got his money with interest even from the hardest cases without ever going to court. The muscular collectors he hired were more efficient.

Even if I paid the standard interest and fees, I calculated that I would more than double the money. I drove straight to the pawn shop and asked alibaba to lend me a couple of grand for something urgent. To his credit, he did not ask the reason. He took me to a dingy room in the back and told me the terms, “You are borrowing 2,500, including 500 in fees which are paid in advance and you have twelve months to pay me back 5,000. A year from today, Big Bull will call on you and if the money is not there, the consequences would not be pleasant for you or the family”. I did a quick calculation; 2,000 becomes 8,000, I give him 5000. That leaves me 3,000, enough for a deposit on my own cab. “It is a deal,” I said. We shook hands and I left the shop with twenty dirty hundred dollar bills. However, dirt didn’t have time to stick to my fingers. Within a few minutes, bills had been converted into 8,000 dollar bonds.

The business news now became my main interest. My car radio was turned on to the business channel. At home I disregarded Jamila’s protests and turned TV on to the Report on Business station. The company’s restructuring was big news. A week later the deal on bonds was reported. The bonds shot up to 80c. I calculated that I could sell and walk away with 1,400. “Not enough for the deposit, a good investor must be patient” I thought. A week later the bonds crashed to 20c. I was perplexed. There was no news but there must be some reason for such a fall. I called the company. After keeping me waiting for a long time, enough for me to miss two fares, I was connected to an accountant type. He told me something about senior bonds claiming all the money and leaving little for my junior bonds. I didn’t follow the gobbledygook but my heart sank. Something was seriously wrong.

The due date came and went without any money showing up. I called the accountant directly. He said that the two types of bondholders are taking the matter to court. The case will be heard in two months and the judge will issue his verdict a month later. He said things didn’t look good for “juniors”, they may not get anything. Then he gave me the number of the lawyer representing juniors. The lawyer happened to be one of my regulars and was very friendly. He was much more hopeful but he had another wrinkle, “The judgment will almost certainly be appealed by the losing side and it may not be settled for years.” Just when I was going to collapse I heard, “But it may be settled out of court too.” I gave him my number and lay down on the backseat till the cop ordered me to move.

I had a call three months later, “I have just received the judgment. We have lost the case. I will call you again after I have studied the document.” My world went dark I owed Alibaba five grand and there was no way I could repay it. However, I still had eight months to plan my strategy. “May be my story will be published; some publisher will read it and offer me an advance for my book.” Crazy thoughts, but these were my only hope. I spent the day in a daze, taking my passengers to the wrong addresses and receiving deserved scolding from them. After work I walked up the stairs to our apartment pondering my next move. Fortunately Jamila was wrapped in her own concerns, something about her kid sister in Lahore wanting to immigrate to Canada. Then my heart took a leap. There on the table was the letter from the Editor. I tore it open. Just one line, “Your story was not considered suitable for our journal.” My world was coming to an end for sure.

I am as resilient as the next man. Next morning I got up earlier than usual and drove to the taxi stand at the Grand Hotel. Who should come out of the hotel but the lawyer of the “juniors”. He looked happy for someone who had lost a big case. He settled himself into the back seat without looking at me, took out his cell and dialed a number. My cell rang and I heard in both my ears, “I was hasty calling you yesterday. We did lose the case but only partially. The judgment allows us fifty cents and will not be appealed. You should get your money in a few days. I thanked the caller and quickly worked out that I would be one grand short. Working two shifts over weekends for next eight months should make up this difference. “Allah is great, He teaches us lessons in the form we can learn” I thought. I said a silent prayer when the car was facing east. I now had another proof that Allah looks after the poor and the meek.