3Hooligans
Dedicated to my rowdy, graduating class of hooligans. You all rock my world.
He could hear sniggering as he furiously signed the forms, constantly throwing glares at the four teenage boys sitting in front of him, wearing gleeful smiles. They were proud of causing havoc; proud of disturbing his school's peaceful atmosphere. Mr. Qasuri's left eye was twitching in anger and he wished with all his heart that beating in school was still allowed; for if it was, he would straighten these hooligans until they became serious as they ought to be and never caused harm again.
He leaned back into his chair, interlacing his hands and placing them on his protruding stomach. The boys stared back at him, their faces wearing mock expressions of soberness but their eyes twinkling with mischief. Mr. Qasuri heaved a great sigh and asked in a somewhat exhausted voice, "Why is it that I see you four in my office every single day?"
One of the boys cleared his throat, as if preparing for a great speech and said, "Well, you see, Mr. Qasuri -"
"That was rhetorical, Mr. Farhan."
The boy frowned in confusion, raising his hand and waiving it about as if he was in class, "But, sir! I have an answer!"
Mr. Qasuri sighed with irritation, running his hand over his already weary face, "And I have no desire of hearing your rambling excuses."
The boy huffed and slumped back into his chair, his arms crossed over his thin chest. Mr. Qasuri was going to continue to give them a piece of his mind when another one interrupted with words as stupid as the earlier one's, "But I thought we had democracy in this school, seeing as you're such a fan of it."
"We have democracy," the principle said, nodding his head seriously, "but with order."
The 'hooligan' with the lanky black hair simply couldn't control himself; his lips were threatening to rip before he burst into laughter, trying to stifle it by shoving his knuckles into his mouth. But it was not the type of laugh that you could pass off as a cough and Mr. Qasuri shot the boy a dirty glare, "Is there something you'd like to share, Mr. Sukhera?"
He took a gasp of air, trying to regain control after his fit of laughter, wheezing as he spoke, "No, Mr. Qasuri."
"But I simply love jokes," Mr. Qasuri said coldly, his brown eyes fixed upon the laughing teenager. "I would like to hear one."
Sukhera shook his head, biting his lower lip to stop himself from chuckling. Farhan very obviously kicked his leg under the table, scolding him to regain control; but Farhan couldn't say much as he himself was quite happy right now, enjoying watching Mr. Qasuri's face rise to the color of red.
"Yes, so boys - I can't ignore punishing you any longer - this is getting quite out of hand -"
"Wait," another one spoke, interrupting Mr. Qasuri quite rudely which made him cast an angry look at the boy, "You've been ignoring punishing us? Mr. Qasuri! In the past month, we've had seventeen detentions!"
Mr. Qasuri cleared his throat, "Yes, well, detention isn't exactly punishment -"
"How would you know?" Sukhera asked darkly.
"I -"
"You probably never even saw the inside of a detention," Hammad said, chuckling quietly as he looked upon his principle.
"Now, now -"
"I can't even believe -"
"Stop interrupting me!" Mr. Qasuri yelled, banging his fist down on the desk so that his water toppled over and spilled all over the forms he had spent the morning signing. He groaned in annoyance, looking up and glowering at the four boys. He raised his finger to point at them, slowly rising from his seat, his face crossing seven shades of red, "This is your fault."
They all snickered, "Mr. Qasuri, you slammed your fist down -"
"I've had enough of you boys! I will be contacting your parents and we will have a very serious discussion about your future in this school!" he yelled, quickly grabbing a ball of tissue paper and dabbing at the damaged forms, "Go!"
"Mr. Qasuri, you can't be serious -"
"GET OUT!" Mr. Qasuri hollered, his left eye twitching and his face blue now with anger. He stuck out his chest, sucked in his expanding stomach and shouted at them to leave. The four boys hurried out of the office, their expressions those of pure enjoyment. Mr. Qasuri hated that he had given the 'hooligans' the satisfaction of driving him up the wall, but what could he do about it now?
He sighed and went back to drying his forms.
Mr. Qasuri was happy today. Walking with a coffee in his hand, in his new brown suit, he felt like a successful man. The thought made him content and satisfied and he was whistling and swinging his brief case as he walked to his office. He stopped and said 'good day' to whoever came in his path, strutting around the school like he owned it - which he did.
He was whistling a merry tune as he plunged his key into the tiny hole, turning it until the lock clicked open. He hung his coat on the peg on the wall, throwing his brief case onto a near by chair and turning around to face his desk, only to see them again.
"You!" he gasped, "What are you doing here AGAIN?"
"It wasn't our fault!"
"Mr. Karim -"
"He sent us out of class -"
"Was being unfair -"
"Just because we didn't do our homework!"
"We have better things to do, you know?"
"He sent us here -"
"Saying that you would teach us discipline."
"Oh, my days," Mr. Qasuri wept, sinking into his leather chair and burying his face in his hands, "If only your family didn't buy my school the East wing, Sukhera. And if only Hammad wasn't my chance at getting distinctions for my school - and if only you duffers weren't as stubborn and ruthless!"
"We're not ruthless!" Hussain said in their defense, "Look how heart broken we are for each other for being thrown out of class!"
"Simply on the fact that we didn't do five equations for homework. I'm sorry, but what kind of an excuse is that, Mr. Qasuri?"
"OUT!" he bellowed again, pointing at the door, "GOOD DAY!"
"But Mr. Qasuri -"
"I said Good day!" he yelled, marching towards the door and throwing it open, making frantic hand gestures to usher them out of his precious office. The boys tried to control their laughter as they noisily piled out of the room, complaining about the lack of justice in this school and how it was run unfairly. Mr. Qasuri did not fail to catch their snickers before slamming the door shut in their arrogant and amused faces.
He was in a bad mood today; the sun was shining brightly, birds were chirping cheerfully and children squealing excitedly. It might sound like a perfect day to most people but to Mr. Qasuri, it was pain to his sensitive eyes and absolute agony to his ears. His hand was inching towards the silver, dome shaped object at the edge of his desk, his mind tempted by the idea of ending their break early. But he stopped himself - poor children; they worked hard all day long, they deserved a break -
The door burst open and Mr. Qasuri nearly had a heart attack from the large bang. Mrs. Khan stumbled in, having a firm grip on four boys, covered in mud and bruises. He saw them and the blood drained from his face, almost yelling at them to get out of his office but Mrs. Khan started before he could.
"Principle, please take care of these hooligans because I certainly can NOT!" She yelled, very harshly pushing them towards Mr. Qasuri's desk and then turning around to leave the office.
"WHAT! What makes you think I can?" Mr. Qasuri cried but Mrs. Khan was already backing out of the door, her hands raised as if in surrender. Mr. Qasuri stared at the closed door for quite some time before collapsing on his chair and groaning loudly with his head in his hands, "You boys are going to kill me."
"That's ridiculous, Mr. Qasuri!" Sukhera said in a shocked tone, "Why would we want to kill you? We like you - you're not on our die list."
"Or on the murder in cold blood list," Hammad nodded seriously.
"No student from my school is going to grow up to be a serial killer, be it a good child or spoiled brats like yourselves!" Mr. Qasuri spat hatefully but the boys pretended not to listen.
"Unlike that stuck up Taimur," Zafar said, his face twisting with hatred.
"Mr. Qasuri, he was cutting the line and throwing kids to the ground at the canteen!" Hammad said, as if he couldn't believe such a horrifying thing.
Mr. Qasuri rolled his eyes, "Something you do yourself, I'm sure."
Zafar frowned, "Well, yes, we do. But mostly to first graders - oh, come on, Mr. Qasuri. Those little midgets don't feel any of our light nudges -"
"Yes, the 'light nudges' that had Mr. Hashim afraid to come to school for two weeks!"
He pretended not to hear, "- and out care free taunts. Now Taimur was bullying us. Well, that's not acceptable, is it?"
"And he started humiliating us -"
"And he called Farhan a dumb - well, I feel awkward saying the word in front of you, Mr. Qasuri," Hammad grinned.
"We were bound to fight back!" Sukhera resounded.
Mr. Qasuri heaved a great sigh and leaned back into his leather chair. The boys were watching him intently, waiting for him to say that he would surely punish Taimur for his horrible behavior. But the simple words that came out of the old man's mouth, in an almost strangled whisper was, "Please leave. Now."
They were dumbstruck, "What? Why?"
"Now," he repeated softly, pointing at the door.
"Mr. Qasuri -"
"Now!" Mr. Qasuri said sharply, his voice building up and gaining strength, "Now! Now, now, NOW!"
The four boys scrambled to their feet and out of the office, a look of pure amusement and glee on their youthful faces. Mr. Qasuri grabbed his hair in fistfuls in frustration as he heard the four boys roaring with laughter as they ran down the corridor, away from his once very peaceful office.
Whoever walked into Mr. Qasuri's office that spring day, would leave it either crying, devastated, suspended or fired. His horrendous mood was making him cruel; he wanted to be ruthless, to have every one scared of him and to have no one disturb him. Constantly through out the day, people barged into his office like they owned it and started ordering him about when he was the principle, he was the one in charge -
Once again, Mr. Qasuri was disturbed by the large bang of his door being thrown open. There stood the Hooligans, as usual - for how could a torturous day be complete without their presence? They were standing there, with large grins plastered to their arrogant faces, ready to open their mouths and speak.
Mr. Qasuri took one, large deep and fulfilling breath of air before yelling with all his might:
"OUT!" They jumped in alarm, "Out! Out, OUT, OUT!"
"Alright, alright," Zafar said, backing out of the door, his grin being wiped off his face only temporarily. As soon as Mr. Qasuri stopped yelling, it returned and he said, "You know, we were going to tell you a very interesting -"
"I SAID 'OUT'!"
Mr. Qasuri was at the farewell of the graduating class, piling his already full plate with more kebabs. He was starving after giving a speech that was supposed to be inspiring; but truth to be told, the entire time he had been thinking more about the dinner ahead than inspiring all these boys.
He was walking through bunches of boys when he came face to face with none other than the Hooligans, grinning from ear to ear at their principle. "Oh, no," Mr. Qasuri groaned.
"Yes, it's very lovely to see you too, sir," Sukhera grinned.
"Listen, boys, I must sit and -"
"You know, sir, we know your secret," Hammad nodded importantly, taking a kebab from Mr. Qasuri's plate quite rudely and chewing on it.
"Secret?" Mr. Qasuri frowned in confusion, "What secret?"
"You know."
"Your deep dark secret."
"This is ridiculous -" Mr. Qasuri was yet again cut off by the four boys, who had a constant grin plastered to their faces.
"We know you'll miss us, Mr. Qasuri."
It was the principle's turn to grin and laugh; something that he had never done in their presence before. The plate shook as he roared with laughter, attracting the attention of a lot of students as well as teachers as Mr. Qasuri laughing was a sight not very common.
"You know it's true," Zafar smiled smugly.
"Oh, boys," Mr. Qasuri chuckled, "Step aside."
"You can deny it all you want, Mr. Qasuri," Farhan smiled, "But one day, you'll sit in your office chair, and you'll think, 'God, I miss them'."
"Whatever you say boys," Mr. Qasuri snickered, walking around them to a table, "Whatever you say."
Mr. Qasuri was a happy man.
The next year had begun and so far, no one had barged into his office to disturb him. He was peacefully looking out of his window, watching the last of the monsoons of Pakistan water his grounds and his city. It was so quiet that he could hear the whooshing sound of the fan, the tick of his clock, even the slight buzzing of his desk lamp.
Mr. Qasuri reached forward and pushed a few buttons on his very outdated radio, letting a very modern pop song fill his office. He immediately shut it off as he could not imagine what kind of rumors would spread about him if his students saw him listening to Britney Spears.
He sighed and leaned back into his chair, interlacing his hands on his protruding stomach.
Maybe there was a thing such as too quite.
He missed them.
He missed his hooligans.
He missed them barging into his office like they owned it, missed their rambling excuses, missed their ridiculous stories, their foolish rants and idiotic complaints against the teachers of his school. He missed the noise and the drama that they brought to his day, he missed the entertainment - which at the time, he had not recognized it to be.
Mr. Qasuri was an old man now; retiring and handing on the position of the principle to a lovely and capable woman. A rather dull four years had pushed him over the edge to retire; controlling a school and bossing students and teachers about just wasn't fun anymore because they all obeyed and listened to every single word of his. It made his day too perfect and too perfect was always boring.
He packed up all his books, throwing them one by one into a cardboard box. Wedged in between two books, was a white envelope. He frowned and opened it, curious to see what was inside.
He smiled at the postcard. It was them.
Arm in arm, they were laughing at the camera, carefree. Even after two years, after their features had matured and they were no longer young teenagers, they held the same arrogant and naive air around them - and looking at the picture, Mr. Qasuri remembered why he had chosen teaching as a profession - something that he had forgot a long time ago.
He turned the card over and grinned.
To our favorite teacher of all time - from the 'Hooligans'.
Mr. Qasuri laughed and tucked the picture into the front pocket of his coat, next to his heart before picking up the box and leaving the office; the smile still etched upon his wizened face.
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