Dead end
Rafeeq counted to ten with a racing heart as he waited for the curfew siren to end. The army would soon march past shuttered homes, the empty streets echoing to their footsteps. Barricaded trucks would rumble past, next. They were ordered to shoot at sight. Fear and the distant clamour of angry mobs hung heavily in the air.
Rafeeq glanced at his bags and mason’s toolkit lined by the door. They were strapped and labeled for Dubai, the city of black gold. If he didn’t reach the airport quickly, he’d be finished. But he’d be shot if he stepped outside. Maybe that would be better than giving in to Shakeel’s demands, he thought whimsically; he was finished anyway.
Shakeel, once his childhood friend. Now Shakeel, the sharpshooter, the fixer, with money to throw around. Shakeel had jeered, "Cowards run away! Real men grab what they want”. Shakeel, the nasty businessman, who’d bartered over the loan for his airfare, “ If you can’t pay us back, join us or we’ll fix you”.
Yet again, a useless riot, he thought, angrily. Why’d this have to happen today, why not next week? Fate was against him, it was all his cursed luck. If only he’d gotten away a day earlier, he thought, despairing. Some uproar over a temple or a mosque from two hundred years ago, in some godforsaken town. Fanatic mobs armed with spears and knives roamed the streets, so they said in the mosque. Fight the bloodthirsty devil, they’d said, wild-eyed, but it wasn’t his battle. He’d just wanted to run.
Masons like him were in demand on large construction projects in Dubai. He’d never wanted to go to that scorching land, not at first. But his father’s hospitalization and funeral debts had overwhelmed him. Dubai’s dirhams would get multiplied many times over in Indian currency. Inshallah, at least it would be honest work, imaan. But maybe God wished otherwise.
Maybe Shakeel was right.
(cue- Oh God! Why me? 317 words)
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Go west
In the dark, Amrita saw strands of bright lights, maybe a party was in progress on the lawns. She identified laughter, cutlery and tinkling glass, high-pitched voices and an insistent, insect-like buzz somewhere in the background. No, if you heard closely enough it sounded like a scratchy music tape. Amrita tried to unscramble the words, past the whirr and buzz. “ Oh! Its ‘Go west’ ”, she said, and hummed along.
The next instant she found herself in a vast regal building with impressive arches, vaulted ceilings and polished wooden floors. Colorful paintings lined the walls, and tasseled silk curtains framed large windows. A group of people seemed to be walking around, looking at the pictures, perhaps they were tourists. Amrita was quite surprised to be a part of that group, for it seemed a rather familiar place. A song played somewhere in the distance. Although she strained to hear the words, they were too faint.
Just as suddenly, she found herself on a rickety bus that was climbing up a steep mountain incline. The bus was late, she had a plane to catch, perhaps they’d taken longer than scheduled at the palace. Amrita panicked as she realised how far away the airport was. The bus negotiated a steep curve only to stall before a river in spate. She walked to the rusty bridge, the gushing waters seem to be echoing some words. Amrita was puzzled, she just couldn’t place the words. But if she didn’t find a way out quickly, she’d be finished; it was absolutely critical that she move. Just then, a gaily-decorated camel cart appeared. Amrita laughed at the sight, a camel cart, festooned with bells and garlands, at the boarding gate of a plane. She knew she’d be all right, now.
The alarm trilled loudly. Amrita yawned and shook herself awake, reaching to pick up an US university admission form from her bedside table. “ Go west. Life is peaceful there, go west in the open air” as the song went. She wasn’t confused any longer; her job in India could wait.
(cue- dreaming/imagining, 348 words)
In the dark, Amrita saw strands of bright lights, maybe a party was in progress on the lawns. She identified laughter, cutlery and tinkling glass, high-pitched voices and an insistent, insect-like buzz somewhere in the background. No, if you heard closely enough it sounded like a scratchy music tape. Amrita tried to unscramble the words, past the whirr and buzz. “ Oh! Its ‘Go west’ ”, she said, and hummed along.
The next instant she found herself in a vast regal building with impressive arches, vaulted ceilings and polished wooden floors. Colorful paintings lined the walls, and tasseled silk curtains framed large windows. A group of people seemed to be walking around, looking at the pictures, perhaps they were tourists. Amrita was quite surprised to be a part of that group, for it seemed a rather familiar place. A song played somewhere in the distance. Although she strained to hear the words, they were too faint.
Just as suddenly, she found herself on a rickety bus that was climbing up a steep mountain incline. The bus was late, she had a plane to catch, perhaps they’d taken longer than scheduled at the palace. Amrita panicked as she realised how far away the airport was. The bus negotiated a steep curve only to stall before a river in spate. She walked to the rusty bridge, the gushing waters seem to be echoing some words. Amrita was puzzled, she just couldn’t place the words. But if she didn’t find a way out quickly, she’d be finished; it was absolutely critical that she move. Just then, a gaily-decorated camel cart appeared. Amrita laughed at the sight, a camel cart, festooned with bells and garlands, at the boarding gate of a plane. She knew she’d be all right, now.
The alarm trilled loudly. Amrita yawned and shook herself awake, reaching to pick up an US university admission form from her bedside table. “ Go west. Life is peaceful there, go west in the open air” as the song went. She wasn’t confused any longer; her job in India could wait.
(cue- dreaming/imagining, 348 words)
Saturday, February 03, 2007
Torn
Mehjabeen sighed as she shut the book that she was reading. In the late dusk a few straggling birds winged their way home. Soon, stars would hold up a velvet sky, and the muezzin would call out from the minaret, age-old words reminding the faithful.
There was a James in the story that she’d just read, a representative of Her Majesty the Queen at the Nizam’s court in Hyderabad. That James had lived happily ever after, even though he wed his beloved, ignoring bloodlines, cultures and lifestyles.
Let’s go away, her James had said. His short assignment almost over in the IT company where she worked, he’d soon return to his life. A different life.
The book made it sound so simple. Perhaps 18th century India was different, she thought wistfully. Perhaps she should just toss a coin. Anything would be better than the shroud of silence she’d crept behind. “Is something the matter, beta?” her mother had asked.
Would there be a scandal? Of course there’d be a scandal! Wasn’t there a scandal all those centuries ago? Gossip and fierce debate in the bazaar, skirmishes in the winding bylanes, a furtive investigation by the authorities, a near uprising.
Couldn’t be as bad. Perhaps they’d ostracize Abba and Ammijaan. Or completely cut off relations, cold shoulder them. Maybe stop all business dealings, she thought, with a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach. Stone and ransack the house? Honor killings? Not likely, this was a democracy, right?
Perhaps no one would drop by for a cup of tea or invite them to weddings and functions anymore. Her aunts would nag, sermonize and pick on her mother’s modern ways. No purdah! And learning beyond class five! Computer science! What need did a girl have of such frippery? It just gave ideas and then see what happens! Walking about shamelessly, unveiled and unescorted! Tramping off with a foreigner no less, some James.
Her James. He’d soon return to New York. “Come away!” he’d said, laughing; that telltale gleam in his eye showing how well he understood her. It was uncanny how they could read each other’s minds, with not a word said.
She dialed his number on her cell. She’d have to decide quickly.
(this was a writing sub, cue- Torn)
Mehjabeen sighed as she shut the book that she was reading. In the late dusk a few straggling birds winged their way home. Soon, stars would hold up a velvet sky, and the muezzin would call out from the minaret, age-old words reminding the faithful.
There was a James in the story that she’d just read, a representative of Her Majesty the Queen at the Nizam’s court in Hyderabad. That James had lived happily ever after, even though he wed his beloved, ignoring bloodlines, cultures and lifestyles.
Let’s go away, her James had said. His short assignment almost over in the IT company where she worked, he’d soon return to his life. A different life.
The book made it sound so simple. Perhaps 18th century India was different, she thought wistfully. Perhaps she should just toss a coin. Anything would be better than the shroud of silence she’d crept behind. “Is something the matter, beta?” her mother had asked.
Would there be a scandal? Of course there’d be a scandal! Wasn’t there a scandal all those centuries ago? Gossip and fierce debate in the bazaar, skirmishes in the winding bylanes, a furtive investigation by the authorities, a near uprising.
Couldn’t be as bad. Perhaps they’d ostracize Abba and Ammijaan. Or completely cut off relations, cold shoulder them. Maybe stop all business dealings, she thought, with a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach. Stone and ransack the house? Honor killings? Not likely, this was a democracy, right?
Perhaps no one would drop by for a cup of tea or invite them to weddings and functions anymore. Her aunts would nag, sermonize and pick on her mother’s modern ways. No purdah! And learning beyond class five! Computer science! What need did a girl have of such frippery? It just gave ideas and then see what happens! Walking about shamelessly, unveiled and unescorted! Tramping off with a foreigner no less, some James.
Her James. He’d soon return to New York. “Come away!” he’d said, laughing; that telltale gleam in his eye showing how well he understood her. It was uncanny how they could read each other’s minds, with not a word said.
She dialed his number on her cell. She’d have to decide quickly.
(this was a writing sub, cue- Torn)
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