Baby Khaki's Wings Read online
ANAR ALI is a graduate of the M.F.A. Creative Writing Program at the University of British Columbia. She was born in Tanzania, grew up in Alberta, and lives in Toronto.
VIKING
an imprint of Penguin Canada, a division of Penguin Random House Canada Limited
Canada • USA • UK • Ireland • Australia • New Zealand • India • South Africa • China
First published 2006
Copyright © 2006 by Anar Ali
In “The Weight of Pearls” on this page, the speech of the Imam is reprinted with permission from Aga Khan III: Selected Speeches and Writings by K.K. Aziz, Kegan Paul International, 1988.
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
www.penguinrandomhouse.ca
Publisher’s note: This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication data available upon request to the publisher.
ISBN: 9780670064250 (hardback)
ISBN: 9780735234284 (electronic)
v4.1
a
For my parents
Nurali and Rozina Mohamedali
Speak—your lips are free.
Speak—this tongue is still yours.
This magnificent body is still yours.
Speak—your life is still yours.
—from “Speak” by Faiz Ahmed Faiz
(translated by Daud Kamal)
STORIES
Cover
About the Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
The Weight of Pearls
A Christmas Baby
Baby Khaki’s Wings
Bombshell Beauty
Open House
Samuel Mathews
The Rubbermaid Princess
Acknowledgments
The Weight of Pearls
Due to the war, the community had to wait years upon years before they could physically see their Imam again and properly celebrate his Diamond Jubilee. When the war ended in 1945, they anxiously waited for word. A full year later, a telegram with the news finally arrived! The community in Tanganyika could not believe their good fortune—the Imam had chosen only two places in the entire world, Bombay and Dar es Salaam, to celebrate the sixty years of his benevolent rule as spiritual father. The Diamond Jubilee celebrations would give them a chance to mark his leadership by weighing him against diamonds.
As soon as they received the auspicious news, the community in Dar es Salaam broke out in grand celebrations with nightly programs of dandia-raas and food in the courtyard of the jamatkhana. The entire R.K. Jiwa family joined the celebrations: Mr. and Mrs. Jiwa, their second son, Nizar, all five of their daughters, both sets of grandparents, all the uncles, aunties, cousin-brothers, cousin-sisters, and so on. Only Shamshu, the eldest son of Mr. and Mrs. Jiwa, kept his distance. He preferred to watch the celebrations rather than participate because he found crowds to be overwhelming. Even as a little boy, he would recoil from the intense noise in the Jiwa household. Noise and the excesses of the outer world, in general, seemed to disturb the balance inside Shamshu’s body. He preferred to find a safe corner in the house and read fairy tales and rhymes or create little stories in his head. At night, he would sometimes slip outside to stare at the sky or shine a flashlight into it hoping to create a small pin of light on the dark canvas.
Mr. and Mrs. Jiwa noticed Shamshu’s oddities, but hoped (and prayed) that in time he would grow out of them. Eventually, though, they gave up hope, because even now, at the age of sixteen, he had not improved at all. Thank God I have another son, Mr. Jiwa thought. Shamshu hardly noticed his parents’ disapproval; he was accustomed to not fitting in—not only at home but also at school and jamatkhana. For the most part, Shamshu didn’t mind; it was only once in a while that he felt lonely, as if he were a fish in its own bowl. But no one else was interested in the same things he was, so what choice did he have? He had to be true to himself.
—
SHAMSHU LEANED OVER the railing from the library high above the jamatkhana courtyard and watched the celebrations below: troops of volunteers in smart grey uniforms stood behind tables stacked with trays of white cake; barrels overflowed with pink sherbet chock full of takmaria; gaggles of children darted through the rows of people playing dandia or around the women playing raasra who had to pull up their colourful saris when the circle turned to a frantic beat. Fascinated by the women’s feet, Shamshu bent farther over the railing. Stepstepclapturnclap. The sound of the women’s feet resonated with his breathing and soon, he felt as if his body was spinning like the skirt of a whirling dervish. In moments like this Shamshu was able to tune everything else so that he felt like his body, mind, and soul had been fused together—as if a scale had been re-balanced inside him, the needle coming to rest at zero, giving him a great sense of peace and calm.
Fatima Noorani, Nizar’s classmate, tapped Shamshu on his shoulder. He turned in surprise.
“Your mother’s looking for you.” Fatima twirled the end of her ponytail around her finger.
“Huh?”
“Your mother asked me to come and get you. See.” She pointed below to a woman in a peacock-blue sari.
Shamshu looked down to see his mother waving at him; she motioned for him to come down. Shamshu nodded, but he was disappointed that his thoughts had been disturbed.
Fatima pointed to the book under Shamshu’s arm. “Oh, so you must be the one who keeps signing out all the Rumi?”
Shamshu didn’t say anything; he was surprised by her question. It was as if he had been wading in a river when suddenly he found himself at its mouth, gushing into the ocean.
“Return it soon. I want to sign it out.” Fatima pushed her glasses up the ridge of her nose with a finger.
Shamshu stretched his arm out, the book in the palm of his hand.
“No, silly. I don’t mean now. Finish it first.”
“It’s okay. I’ve had it for too long.”
“Okay. But why don’t you take my Nasir-i Khusraw? His poetry is very beautiful too. You know this book?” Fatima held up the poet’s Divan.
Shamshu shrugged, a little embarrassed that he hadn’t even heard of this poet.
“ ‘The exoteric of revelation is like brackish water, but the esoteric like pearls for the wise. Pearls and jewels are to be found on the seabed, look for the pearl-diver instead of running on the shore.’ ” Fatima smiled as she handed him the book. “He’s Ismaili, you know.”
Fatima’s voice seeped through Shamshu’s body like a sweet nectar and rendered him speechless. She was suddenly so beautiful to him that he could barely look at her; he took the book from her and quickly turned his gaze down.
—
SOON AFTER THE DIAMOND JUBILEE was announced, a campaign was initiated within the jamat to raise the necessary funds for the diamonds. Council members visited businesses and requested donations. People gave what they could, grateful for the opportunity to pay homage to their Imam, who deserved their affection and gratitude for his great generosity and wisdom. Some people, like Mr. Jiwa, gave karores, thousands and thousands of shillings, and then in jamatkhana, when they read out his name and the amount he had donated (making many turn toward
him with admiration and envy), Mr. Jiwa looked down and tried his best not to appear too pleased.
In an effort to emulate his father, a pillar in the community, Nizar decided to initiate a collection amongst the boys at school. Mr. Jiwa and Councillor Sahib were especially pleased when, after the list of initial donors was read, Nizar told them of the boys’ collection.
Councillor Sahib tipped his head in the direction of Nizar and then said to Mr. Jiwa, “You’ve got a smart one there, Bhai.” He then shook his head in awe and patted Mr. Jiwa’s shoulder with exaggerated effort.
“True indeed.” Mr. Jiwa winked and then tossed Nizar’s hair. There was no doubt in his mind whatsoever: he would make Nizar the sole heir to the business one day. God only knows, Shamshu would drive the company into the ground. “Hear that?” Mr. Jiwa asked Shamshu, who happened to be standing next to him. “See what a good example your brother is setting, hanh?”
Shamshu nodded, more out of habit than anything else. He was busy rolling a line of poetry in his mouth like a piece of candy. Don’t pretend to be a candle, be a moth.
—
AT SCHOOL THE NEXT DAY, Nizar asked the boys to meet him outside, where he gathered them in a circle and announced his plans.
“Where do you think we’re going to get the money, hanh?” asked Mussabhoy as he dipped his fingers into a greasy paper cone of chips.
Nizar snatched away Mussabhoy’s chips. “Where the hell did you get the money for these, Fatso?”
“Eh, give them back!”
Latif shrugged. “Jiwa, he’s got a good point, no? Where are we going to get the money?”
Shaking his head, Nizar turned to Latif. “Stay out of it, Latif. Who asked you anything?”
Mussabhoy reached up on his tiptoes, clamouring, once again, for his chips. “Give them back, otherwise I’ll tell the prefect.”
Nizar raised the paper cone higher above his head. “Tell the prefect, will you? Oh, and who do you think he’ll believe, Fatso? A Jiwa or a tub of ghee, hanh?” He threw the cone down; chips scattered everywhere. “Come on, Fatso.” Nizar waved Mussabhoy forward. “Want to make something of it?”
The other boys laughed and cheered Nizar on. “Jiwa! Jiwa! Jiwa!”
Shamshu stood at the outer edge of the circle as his brother pounded Mussabhoy. He turned his gaze up to the sky. It was so clear that it looked like a vast blue pool and in its reflection, Shamshu could see the Indian Ocean, filled with schools of fish and other creatures of the sea: whales, dolphins, seals, and mermaids. Suddenly, an idea occurred to him. He rushed to the boys, pushing them apart, and entered their circle.
“Pearls!” he said, loudly and clearly.
Nizar had Mussabhoy pinned to the ground, his fingers wrapped around his opponent’s fleshy neck. “Have all the lunatics been let out today?” Nizar looked at the boys. “And to think we have the same mother, the same father.”
Shamshu felt an unusual surge of confidence rise from his belly; he ignored Nizar. “Oyster Bay! That’s the answer.”
“What the hell are you talking about? Can’t you bloody well see I’m in the middle of something?” Nizar kept his gaze fixed on his brother and gave Mussabhoy another slap. Mussabhoy wailed; Nizar cupped his hand over the boy’s mouth.
“Oyster Bay!” Shamshu jumped up and down. “Don’t you see? We don’t need money. We can dive for pearls. We can give the Imam pearls.”
Nizar climbed off Mussabhoy and walked to his brother. The other boys exchanged glances, some even raised their eyebrows. They liked Shamshu’s idea, but no one dared interfere.
Nizar stared at his brother. “Well, well, well. What a bloody coincidence—exactly what I was thinking. Did you read my mind or something?” Nizar tapped Shamshu on the head, then winked at the other boys. “Plus we’ll make it a competition. Whoever gets the most pearls will gift it to the Imam at the Diamond Jubilee. What a good idea, hanh?”
“Yes! A fine idea,” several boys responded. They all clapped and chanted, “Hip-hip-hooray.” They knew that despite his hot temper, Nizar loved a good and fair challenge and that victory was open to all. Most of them were avid divers. They would often dive for fistfuls of sand—with Nizar usually emerging the winner. But this time the stakes would be higher—not only would they have to find oysters with pearls (such fun!), but this would also provide them with a chance to do something for the Imam.
Shamshu did not mind that Nizar took credit for his idea. In fact he barely noticed that had happened. What bothered him was making the collection of pearls a competition. Why was that necessary? Why did it matter how much each person collected when it was all being done for the same purpose? To motivate people, to make sure they did their share? But wasn’t the common goal enough? A goal that was greater than any individual accomplishment? Wasn’t that the most important thing—what they all did together, rather than what they did individually? Besides, Shamshu had noticed, competition sometimes bred too much ambition, often putting things out of balance by singling out one person, who was crowned the winner, while the rest were thrown into one heap, all deemed losers. Not that it mattered, but Shamshu was certain he would never win—he was not built for athletics like Nizar. In fact, he usually only sat on the beach and watched the boys jump in and out of the water like flying fish. But it was the idea of finding a pearl, the search for a pearl, that shimmered in Shamshu’s mind and spurred him on.
—
WORD ABOUT THE PEARL COMPETITION spread quickly throughout the school, generating a fever of excitement, so that practically all the boys signed up right away. Fatima wanted to sign up as well, but Nizar adamantly refused.
“Don’t be ridiculous! It’s for boys only.”
“Are you scared that I’ll beat you? I’m an excellent swimmer, you know.”
Nizar and the boys laughed.
“I can see that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Oh yes, I’m so scared.” Nizar turned around, bent over, and pointed to his backside. “Look, I’ve even wet my pants!”
All the boys except Shamshu burst out in laughter. Fatima scowled at Nizar, then turned to leave, but he grabbed her arm. “Tell you what, girl. Why not be our timekeeper?”
Fatima tried to pull her arm away, but Nizar maintained his grip. “Plus, it would be a very nice bonus,” Nizar winked, “to see you in your swimming costume. Come on, what do you say?”
Fatima pulled harder and as she broke free, her glasses slipped down her nose. “Idiot!” She scanned the circle of boys. “All of you—idiots!” She pushed her glasses back up with a finger and then wiggled her nose to adjust them into place. Fatima was about to leave when she noticed Shamshu, who was standing outside the circle. “Except you, Shamshu.” She smiled at him. “How do you like Nasir-i Khusraw?”
Shamshu felt a surge of energy rise inside him like a wave, but it fell just as quickly when the boys began to tease him. You going to marry her, Shamshuji, are you?
Fatima marched over to Shamshu. “Don’t listen to them! They’re hooligans.”
The boys continued their tirade. Think you can get it up for a girl like her? Maybe she’s a real beauty under those Coke-bottle glasses, hanh?
Fatima took Shamshu by the elbow. “They’re not like us,” she whispered, and then led him away.
—
THE COMPETITION STARTED on the first day of the ten-day Diamond Jubilee celebration leading to the weighing ceremony. The plan was simple: spend the morning at the celebrations, which were held at the grounds of the Aga Khan Sports Club, the afternoon diving at Oyster Bay, and in the evening, return to the grounds for the special fireworks display that would, they were told, illuminate the sky in red and green, the colour of My Flag. The first morning, the boys wandered through the grounds with their families and visited various pavilions, which exhibited the work and activities of the community. Most of the boys concocted some sort of excuse and made it to Oyster Bay in time for the competition, but a few boys were disqualified even though they had v
alid excuses for turning up late; they had been forced by their parents to attend various lectures on topics like health and hygiene. They begged for leniency, but Nizar refused. “There is a price for everything,” he told them, then waved them away.
The boys were provided with woven sacks made of kikapu and had thirty minutes to harvest as many oysters as possible. They all stood on the beach, one foot forward, anxiously waiting to start. The appointed timekeeper cupped his hands around his mouth. “On your marks. Get set. Go!”
The boys rushed into the blue-green waves and swam out several yards. Shamshu stood on the beach, watching as the boys gulped mouthfuls of air and then dove into the sea, their feet chopping the air before finally disappearing. They emerged a minute or so later, only to repeat the cycle. Go! Shamshu told himself. Don’t be scared. He was unable to summon enough courage until he remembered a line from the poem Fatima had read to him: Pearls and jewels are to be found on the seabed.
Soon, Shamshu found himself stepping into the ocean and paddling his way to the boys. He repeated the line of poetry like an incantation, and when he submerged his head, his body shot downward like an arrow. Panic filled him. He thrashed his arms and legs violently until he was finally able to break his speed and descend at a slower, more manageable, rate. He then used his arms as rudders and came to a full stop, suspended in the water like a hummingbird in mid-flight. As he turned his head, he was overcome with the world he had entered. It seemed endless. There was no sound except that of his own breathing. With each inhalation, his lungs filled with ocean water, and his heart, pumping to the rhythm of the waves passing far above him, distilled oxygen into his blood, and with each exhalation, it released a spray of bubbles and grains of salt through his nose. Shamshu felt as if he had merged with the ocean, filling him with a tremendous calm.
Moments later, a large, colourful fish with the curves of a woman swam by him. Shamshu was compelled to follow her. She led him downward, her tail swooshing through the water effortlessly. As they approached the seabed, Shamshu was forced to cup his eyes. A bright light shimmered from the mirrored floor. Shamshu swam closer to the bottom, drawn by its warmth. In the seabed, he could see his reflection clearly. He waved and made funny faces at himself. It made him laugh so hard that a continual column of bubbles escaped from his mouth, like an air pump in an aquarium. Soon, Shamshu propelled himself to a comfortable nook, sat down, and started to pluck oysters; he took his time and inspected each one with great care before placing it in his sack.
Baby Khaki's Wings