Baby Khaki's Wings Read online

  Najma delivered the ice-cream cones to the car, then ran back to her father, who had, by then, walked to the water’s edge; his shoes dangled from his fingers, waves lapped his feet. Mr. Jivraj felt his daughter at his side and instinctively reached for her hand, but then quickly retreated, tucking his hands into his pant pockets. In the darkness he had forgotten that Najma was no longer a little girl but a young woman. How much he used to enjoy playing with this daughter of his! As clouds drifted past, revealing a bright, slivered moon, Mr. Jivraj remembered the day he found Najma in the backroom of his kanga shop pretending to dance with a bolt of fabric; she had wrapped one end of the fabric around herself like a sari and was holding the bolt out in front of her, stepping this way and that, barely able to keep her balance. The velvety voice of Nat King Cole crooned from the Philips. At first, Mr. Jivraj just stood at the doorway and smiled, but then he marched over and tapped his fingers firmly on the bolt of fabric. “Excuse me, sir, but may I cut in? What? You won’t let me dance with the prettiest girl in the whole world? What a crime! Well, all right. I suppose I have no choice.” He turned to leave, then snapped back around. “On guard, dacoit!” he yelled, and then executed a flurry of kicks and punches. “Dashoom! Take that, bastard. Dashoom!” The bolt fell over. Yards and yards of fabric unravelled to expose a beautiful motif of cashews and Swahili proverbs in green and yellow. Mr. Jivraj lifted his daughter, eyes bright, giggling uncontrollably, onto his toes. “I hope I didn’t hurt the poor fellow too much, hanh? But then, he didn’t stand a bloody chance against me, now did he? After all,” he puffed out his chest and wrapped his fingers around his hips, “I am one and only Dilip Kumar, hero-star of the whole world.” Najma’s head bounced up and down as she looked up at her father.

  They danced the entire afternoon, and from then on, he would close the shop for a couple of hours every Saturday afternoon to teach Najma dance routines from all of his favourite films—everything from the “You Excite Me” samba in Tonight and Every Night with Rita Hayworth to the “Pyaar Kiyaa to Dara” (When You Have Loved, Why Be Afraid?) dance sequence in Mughal-e-Azam with Dilip Kumar. Mr. Jivraj asked Najma to keep their dance lessons a secret. He knew his wife would never approve of closing the shop for even one minute. He felt a pang of sadness as he thought about the end of those wonderful afternoons. As he turned and looked at Najma’s silhouette, her dress billowing up with the ocean breeze, Yes, he told himself, she will make someone a wonderful wife one day, this beautiful daughter of mine. Mr. Jivraj took a few steps into the ocean and let the receding waves wash away a tangle of seaweed from around his ankles.

  Najma removed her shoes, tossing them behind her, and followed her father into the water. She loved the feeling of the ocean and sand between her toes—as if entire worlds could exist on such a small part of her body. She was sure she felt a mermaid’s tail tickle her, the smoothness of a polished shell, the kiss of a sailor lost at sea. Carried away with her thoughts, she stepped deeper into the water, prompting Mr. Jivraj to quickly reach forward and cup his hand around her shoulder. “Careful, bheta, not so far!” But it was too late. Najma was already waist-deep in ocean, her dress soaked. “Oh-ho, Najma, your mother’s going to be very upset.”

  Najma’s feet sank into the sand. Her father had become such a bloody coward. As far as Najma was concerned, her mother was always upset. So what did it matter anyway?

  Mr. Jivraj slipped off his jacket and handed it to his daughter as she stepped out of the water. Najma shook her head, but he insisted. When he placed the jacket on her shoulders, he made sure he kept his gaze up from her wet dress. Then he turned away and walked briskly toward the headlights of his car. Najma bent down and splashed more ocean water onto her legs, then turned and followed her father. As she pulled the jacket across her body, she looked ahead at her father’s stooping figure. He used to seem so tall, so strong, and Najma was sure that he had somehow shrunk over the years, like a cotton shirt left in hot water too long. Nowadays, he was totally useless. How was it possible, she asked herself, that this was the same man who had taught her how to dance? That he was the same man who had told her endless stories every night, ignoring his wife’s insistent screams that it was time for bed. Najma remembered her favourite story—the one from the film Mughal-e-Azam—about Prince Saleem and the court dancer Anarkali. King Akbar had promised to crush his son’s love affair and bury Anarkali alive, but Prince Saleem rebelled. He was willing to give up his throne and defy his father—all for love.

  On the drive back, Mrs. Jivraj hurled insults at both of them, calling Mr. Jivraj a laloo and irresponsible, Najma a tomboy and a shameless hussy.

  Zarina scolded her too. “You’re grown up now, Najma. When are you going to start acting like a young lady?”

  Mrs. Jivraj turned back and wagged her finger at Najma. “Exactly! Listen to your sister. Think she would have gotten a boy like Amir Merchant if she was acting like you, bhadali?”

  Mr. Jivraj didn’t say anything.

  Najma ignored her sister and her mother. Instead, she stared out at the night sky, which was filled with silent stars, and started her own movie.

  FADE IN:

  INT. THE POMEGRANATE BALLROOM—EARLY EVENING

  NAJMA HAYWORTH, seventeen, simply stunning in a beautiful floor-length red dress and long evening gloves, floats down a staircase leading to the dance floor, her red silk scarf billowing behind her. She takes a long, slow drag from her cigarette, tilts her head back, and blows the smoke out. A crowd of young men in black tails and bow ties gathers at the bottom of the staircase in awe. All heads twist, mouths hang wide open, cigarettes fall to the ground. The crowd parts and on the other side, DILIP KUMAR, debonair in an all-white suit and a silk scarf knotted at his waist and neck, is leaning against the bar. He looks up from his drink in astonishment, crosses the dance floor, and walks straight to her.

  DILIP

  (Visibly shaken)

  Najma, mera pyar, I thought you’d never come. You…you look simply beautiful in that dress.

  Najma looks down at her dress.

  NAJMA

  Oh, this old thing? It’s nothing really.

  DILIP

  (singing and dancing)

  It might be old, my dear,

  but I’m so glad you’re here.

  For if you weren’t,

  I would have gone mad.

  I love your funny face.

  NAJMA

  Oh, but, darling, don’t you know? That’s what I love most about you…

  Najma leans into him.

  NAJMA

  (whispers)

  That you are mad!

  Najma reaches for his elbow.

  NAJMA

  Shall we dance, then? They’re playing our song.

  DILIP

  Where I come from, the man asks the girls to dance.

  Najma puts out her cigarette, leads him to the dance floor.

  NAJMA

  Well, why not just move here, darling? Then you won’t have to be from there anymore.

  Dilip smiles, shakes his head, and follows her. As they dance, people circle the dance floor; a NEWSPAPER MAN, a large camera around his neck, snaps photographs. The Tanganyika Standard whirls to a stop on the screen. The headline reads, “Dar es Salaam’s own Bombshell Beauty announces engagement to one and only Hero-Star of the Whole World, Dilip Kumar.”

  FADE OUT

  Mr. Jivraj pulled into the drive and hooted the car horn signalling the askari to open the gate to the building. Inside the flat, Mr. Jivraj disappeared into his office. Without being told, Zarina put on a kettle of tea for everyone. Mrs. Jivraj harshly grabbed the bodice of Najma’s wet dress and ordered her to change immediately into something dry. Junglee girl! Najma pulled herself away from her mother and walked straight to her room, where she flopped onto her bed, landing on her back. She stretched her arm above her, giggling, as she fingered her imagined diamond-studded engagement ring. She pressed her face into a pillow, hoping to contain her laughter, but so
on, she started laughing so hard that she started to cry. Her chest heaved up and down as she gasped for air in small desperate breaths.

  You Were Never Lovelier

  That night, Zarina had the same dream she has had for many years now. It’s her ninth birthday and her mother has organized a big party. She and her sister sit in the garden playing with their dolls. Zarina can hear the laughter of all the uncles and aunties inside the house. They are very happy; they have white-painted clown faces, red lipstick, and thick kohl under their eyes. Shokat Uncle is the happiest. He has huge clown shoes and carries armloads of gifts. Zarina tears open her gift. Tattered wrapping paper flies everywhere. Inside is a nesting Russian doll painted in blood red and pea green. Isn’t she the most beautiful doll in the whole world? cries Shokat Uncle. Zarina nods eagerly. Pull her head off! yells her mother, her own large head perched on the kitchen windowsill like a flowerpot. Zarina pops the doll open and finds another doll inside, then another, and another, until the very last one. A jellied stone falls out from the smallest doll and onto her lap. It begins to melt, releasing hundreds of maggots, which crawl down her legs, under her dress, over her face, her mouth, down her throat. Zarina screams and throws the doll at Shokat Uncle. She jumps up and down, frantically trying to shake the maggots off. Eh! Is that any way to treat your uncle? Look at how many gifts he has brought for all of us, bellows her mother’s head. Say thank you, you ungrateful little girl. No, no, no, Zarina cries. Shokat Uncle bends down and picks her up. Zarina shrinks in his arms. He pinches her between two fingers, brings her to his face. Shokat Uncle inspects her briefly, Zarina’s legs dangling under her. You, my dear, were never lovelier, he says, and then turns and winks at Zarina’s mother, who is laughing so hard that her head falls off the windowsill and rolls into the muddy flower bed below.

  Ladies and Gentlemen, The Pomegranate Ballroom

  Amir and Zarina leaned into the mahogany banister that circled the dance floor and watched couples waltzing to the rhythm of Jazzy Joe Fernandez and the Goan All-Stars—all seven of them dressed in black tailcoats and white bow ties, standing on a raised stage decorated with a purple crushed-velvet skirt. Najma sat alone at a nearby table, holding a bottle of Coca-Cola with a red and white straw bobbing in it. Crystal chandeliers imported from Italy hung over the dance floor like miniature glass trees that had been turned upside down and rooted into the ceiling. Bevelled mirrors decorated the wall that faced the dance floor—giving the impression that the ballroom was twice its real size. Amir wrapped his hand around Zarina’s waist and pressed himself to her.

  Zarina giggled and pulled away, running her hand over her dreamy white dress with its fitted bodice, scooped neck lined with organza flowers, and full skirt layered with organza over netting over crepe—as if it were three dresses, one inside the other inside the other. It flattered Zarina’s voluptuous body so that many men could not take their eyes off her, and strangely, many of the women ignored her. Zarina’s mother had warned her that this is how women are. They will never like you, bheta. Scared their men will wander with such a beauty around. But if they kept their men happy then what all do they have to worry about, hanh? That is the ultimate question.

  It had taken hours and hours for Zarina to get ready for the Grand Opening. Last night, she had carefully laid out her dress on her bed and then placed her glittering gold shoes underneath the trailing hem. After asking her mother, she also chose a new bra and panties set from the many clothes that were purchased to celebrate the engagement. The white lace panties with their side bows and matching bra would, Zarina imagined, make her feel prettier and cleaner. She knew clearly that the Grand Opening was a trial run for the many other evenings Amir would require her to be by his side as he conducted business or entertained his friends and family. She wanted to fulfill her duties flawlessly. Her top priorities were to make a good impression on Amir’s business colleagues and, more importantly, she wanted to keep Amir in good spirits. “Will we dance soon?” Zarina asked him, eager to start the evening and showcase her talents to him.

  “No point.” He tipped his chin toward the dance floor. “Look at how crowded it is.”

  “How about just a little while?” Zarina said, gently squeezing his elbow. “It is the Grand Opening after all, darling.”

  “As if I don’t know that it’s the Grand Opening…” Amir wrapped his hand firmly around the banister.

  “Oh, darling, I don’t mind. I was only asking, that’s all.” Under her dress, Zarina shifted from one leg to the other, ruffling only the innermost layer.

  Just then, someone tapped Amir on his shoulder. He turned to see his fast friend from childhood, Hussein Kara—or Topsie, as most people called him, since he was always seen sporting a variety of topies—berets, bowlers, top hats, you name it. Amir’s and Topsie’s families had been next-door neighbours in Kariakoo until the Merchants’ business grew from one little ration shop into an empire, after which they moved to a villa in Upanga. Nowadays, Amir and Topsie hardly ever saw each other. “Eh-hey, Mr. Kara. So good of you to come,” Amir said as he slapped his friend’s arm with one hand and offered the other for a handshake. “Where the hell have you been hiding all evening?”

  Topsie reached for Amir’s hand. “Hiding, bana? Just waiting for my princess to walk through the door, bas.” He winked.

  Amir flicked two fingers against Topsie’s hat. “Well, you certainly look like a tip-top prince tonight—so why wait?” He leaned in to Topsie and whispered, “You’ve got to take the bull by the horns, or should I say cow…” He then broke out in laughter.

  Topsie smiled and shook his head while Zarina joined in on Amir’s laughter even though she hadn’t heard his comment.

  “Well, looks like you’ve found your princess,” Topsie said as he swirled his whisky tumbler; ice cubes clinked against the glass. My God, look at this girl. What a firecracker! Leave it to Amir—lucky bastard. His life was bigger than any Topsie could ever dream of. Amir was a man of the world. He had been to London (and not just once), to Bombay, even Osaka and Tokyo for a textile-buying trip with his father. And each time he returned with stories of all the women—the pearl-white women in London who had legs longer than a giraffe’s, the women in Bombay who were so cheap even a pauper could afford several every night, or the delicate women in Tokyo who were so eager and well-informed that they would do anything you asked, even put their mouths and fingers in unmentionable places. Their mouths? Yes, even their mouths. I’m telling you, first-class whores. Just watching them, removing their clothes, contorting their bodies into the strangest positions, is enough to drive a man mad.

  Topsie desperately wished that he had been born into the Merchant family. Life for the Karas had always been a struggle. His father was useless—nothing at all like Mr. Merchant. Mr. Kara had run the family business into the ground, spending most of their money at the casino and on cases of Johnnie Walker. There were even rumours that he was a robber of sorts. A few years ago, when Mr. Kara died in a car accident, Topsie had been relieved. Mrs. Kara wailed at the funeral, beating her chest; Topsie stood firmly next to her, let his hip lean into her, worried that she might fall over. He was clear that as the oldest son it was now his job to be her husband. He resolved to quit school and take care of her and his two little brothers, but Mrs. Kara insisted that he complete his education. “They can take many things away from you, bheta, but no one can take away your education.” In the meantime, she would accept Mr. Merchant’s generous offer to work in his toy shop. She locked away her wedding jewellery, wore only white, and refused to smile at anyone except the children—but inside, Mrs. Kara hadn’t been that happy in years.

  “Yes, yes,” Amir said proudly as he cupped Zarina’s chin in his palm. “This is my princess. Zarina, darling, meet Topsie—pukka friends since childhood.”

  Zarina nodded hello as Topsie pushed his top hat up with an index finger before taking a long swig of his whisky. Topsie was, in her mind, a buffoon. She had seen him before, at a street corner
, wearing that ridiculous white topie, singing something from an angresi film and offering people dance classes. What kind of man was he? A shoga, that’s what. She had even seen him grab that old dosi, Moti Ma, trying to convince her to take a lesson by swaying his hips this way and that until she thwacked him one with her cane. But that didn’t stop him. He removed his top hat and bowed to the dosima, who eventually laughed and ruffled his hair. Zarina had been so embarrassed that she quickly crossed the street and walked the other way.

  Amir spotted Najma sitting by herself at one of the white-linen-covered tables. She crossed her legs, right over left, left over right, then alternated between snapping the elastic at her waist and adjusting her shoulder strap. He turned to see Zarina calling her sister to them. Oh God, why had Zarina even bothered? Now, they would be stuck with the pathetic girl all night. Doesn’t even know how to talk to people properly. Hard to believe that she is Zarina’s sister.

  Najma shot up from her chair and rushed over, bowlegged in her black and white stilettos; she so hoped that Zarina wanted her to dance with Amir.

  “What were you doing sitting all by yourself, silly girl?” Zarina plucked a few strands of hair from Najma’s face and tucked them behind her ear. I told her that she should have used my V05 hairpsray.

  Najma pushed her sister’s arm away, then ran her eyes up and down Topsie’s body. She had seen this young man in jamatkhana a few times, but she couldn’t remember his name. He wasn’t exceptionally good-looking, but he wasn’t ugly either. He looked quite ordinary except for his white top hat, which towered over him like a column of icing sugar and gave him a magical quality, she thought. She smiled. “Who are you?” she asked, pointing a finger at Topsie.