(Dedicated to the Pathan boys who work at open-air markets in Karachi. They will work, but they will not beg)
“I am the soul of a thousand
My thoughts, my hopes of a million
Let the innocent be
For all they have are their dreams" Samia Ahmed
He awoke to the sound of quiet sobbing and the buzzing of the damned bloodsuckers! Disoriented, Zaib swiped at the mosquitoes, turned on his side, pulled the pillow over his head, and tried unsuccessfully to block out the sound of his Ama’s grief.
It would be a week and two days, since that spineless, pusillanimous man he called father, had walked out on them taking their savings and mom’s valuables. No reason, except they were not good enough for him! Just remembering that day had fury surging through his small frame. Restless, he kicked aside the patched quilt. He was no longer the mischievous, carefree ten-year-old boy who loved to tease and laugh. He alone was responsible for his Ama and two younger sisters and he promised himself that he would never let them down like that sorry, good-for-nothing, thieving, worthless dog who had abandoned them! He hated him! Hated him! Angry tears of resentment and helplessness washed over him like a wave, choking, hurting, and burning his chest. In an attempt to rein in his runaway emotions, he took a deep breath then pressed a fist to his trembling mouth wishing, hoping, but his mom’s restrained anguish kept reverberating through him. God, he wished she would at least smile again.
Pretending to be asleep, he turned on his bare stomach to look at her. It was dark inside the sparsely furnished, dilapidated hut. The light from the thin candle danced over her unadorned fire hair. She sat leaning against the wall, eyes closed, cheeks streaked with tears and his baby sister, Laila held close in her arms. Beside them, the five year old, bratty Sherizade slept on her tummy. The glow bathed them in warmth, while his side of the hut felt as cold and dark as a graveyard. Looking at them, he felt the all-consuming rage subside. Sad and confused he desperately prayed for a miracle.
Zaib silently slid off the mattress only to freeze when the wild staccato of gunfire broke the illusion of an innocent night. He saw Ama’s head snap up, she clutched Laila closer to her breast while soothing a startled Sherizade, her eyes searching the shadows. Gulping air, he willed the fear away. Although the sound of gunfire at any time of the day or night was a norm in this part of Karachi, he just could not get used to it.
They along with several families lived in small decrepit cabins at the edge of the notoriously corrupt Lines Area. In this poverty-stricken neighborhood clashes between the police and political factions was a common occurrence. Leaving the moth eaten, damp mattress, he sat on the cold floor beside his Ama and reached for her hand, desperately needing comfort, she squeezed his fingers and moved him closer to her side, he leaned against her, feeling her warmth and soft smells seep through him. She smelled like sunshine and warm honey. He nodded off against her shoulder only to be woken by the muazzain’s call for morning prayers. A new dawn. Zaib’s day had started.
After prayers and a hastily eaten breakfast, he made his way to the municipal taps to fill the water cans – they had no running water or electricity. Then he helped his mom with household chores and after school made his way towards the big houses where he earned two hundred rupees per week washing cars. He knew it was not going to be enough anymore, even with Ama embroidering clothes for the “big woman”. He had to do something more. His two best friends, Noor and Sikander, would help in finding a solution.
With dinner over, he left in a rush to get to the roundabout where Noor and Sikander were already sharing a homemade cigarette. Noor was talking about the latest movie he had seen while; Sikander lay on his back staring at the sky that was heavy with clouds. Zaib stretched out on the grass, letting the smell of the earth block the fumes from the passing traffic. Reaching over he snagged the cigarette out of Noor’s fingers and took a long drag, feeling the warmth and calm down to his toes. He felt like a man. He passed the cigarette to Sikander and studied the sky. He loved watching clouds play. He would lie here for hours on end, gazing at the sky while Noor droned on about becoming a film star. They all had their dreams. His dreams had changed overnight from wanting to buy a wristwatch to making enough money so he could buy one of those big houses and fancy cars, his sisters would go to school, have the latest fashions and his Ma wouldn’t have to work so hard.
Tuesday morning saw Zaib, rushing to meet Noor and Sikander. He had brushed his hair several times already and he was dressed in his favourite brown shalwar kameez. After a lot of thinking, all three of them had decided to go work at the Tuesday open-air market where they would carry the customers’ purchases for a fee and a tip. Noor’s cousin did this every Tuesday, and he made a bundle. All three of them excited with the prospect of becoming rich had dropped out of school to do some serious work.
Getting there, Zaib stood in awe, eyes huge, mind reeling. He had never seen something so big, so lively. There were stalls of vivid fruits and vegetables. Cloth in every colour and print imaginable fluttered in the breeze. Dazzling and tempting. Vendors hawked their wares, music and arguments, different smells of ripe fruit, poultry and hot grease all assaulted his senses. Excitement replaced the wonderment. Noor’s cousin broke the spell with his instructions and a crash course on how to persuade people to accept their services.
Carrying his large raffia basket, he went in search of someone who needed his services. An old lady struggling with several laden plastic bags caught his attention. His first customer. By the end of the day he had lost count, he was deadbeat and the only time he had seen his friends had been when they got together for lunch or prayers. They all had, had one exhausting but enterprising day. As they walked back home each of them discussed their adventures. Zaib just wanted to get home as soon as possible to see the expression on Ama’s face when he handed her the two hundred and sixty-five rupees he had made. He couldn’t wait for next Tuesday. This was turning out to be better than he had expected. He still washed cars everyday. Yesterday he had gotten another job, waiting tables three days a week at the corner hotel. It didn’t pay much but he got free meals. He had to look for something else too or Ama would have to go and clean the rich houses. He didn’t want her doing that. Ever.
The week couldn’t have moved fast enough for Zaib, he did all he was supposed to. Ama had started to smile again but the sadness was always present in her eyes. When he had handed her the week’s earnings she had looked at it with overflowing eyes, then kneeling had gathered him in a crushing embrace. He had felt the wetness of her tears on his neck and had tried to control his own. If Sherizade had not come by and pulled his hair, he would have made a fool out of himself by bursting into tears.
On Tuesday, Zaib waited at the corner of the street for his friends. He looked up at the sky, not a cloud in sight, somehow that depressed him. Instead, he thought of what awaited him today. With all the money he had started bringing home Ama wouldn’t have to leave the house. She depended on him and he would never let her or his sisters down. He hated to think about his father. Feeling impatient and agitated, he started walking alone towards the market.
Once there he felt his spirits rise. He loved this place, the different smells and sounds made him happy. He started working and was well into the day when a man wearing a suit asked him to carry his shopping to the car. After emptying his basket into the trunk, Zaib waited politely by the side of the car for the man to pay him. The man took out two five hundred rupees bills and handed them to him. In shock, Zaib stared at the money and then at the man. “Sir…you mistakenly gave me...” was all he could say. The man just smiled, patted his shoulder, told him to keep it and then drove away.
Zaib stared at the money in his hand. He felt the smooth paper rub gently against his palm, awestruck he held the paper to his nose inhaling the smell of money. He realized he was just standing there with a thousand rupees, one thousand rupees in one day!!! He had to go home! After the initial shock wore off, joy spread through him with a hundred thoughts running rampant through his mind.
Basket in one hand and the money clutched in his right fist, he ran towards home. He ran like the wind, his feet hardly touching the ground. Cars whizzed past him, the wind snatched at his hair and clothes, but he ran on. He had to get home. When the shots rang out, he didn’t hear them. One minute he was running the next he was lying flat on his back as pain speared through his body. In utter confusion, he looked down to see a large stain of red spreading on his shirt. Tears spilled down the side of his face as his body writhed in agony. “Ama” was all he could whisper, as the metallic smell of blood filled his nostrils. He had to get home to give her the money. He had to get up. His body convulsed, the pain was making his mind numb, he stared at the endless blue sky wishing for a cloud.
That is how the police constables and ambulance drivers found him, lying in a pool of his own blood, staring with unseeing eyes at the heavens. The constable picking him up discreetly pocketed the one thousand rupees, which he found in the boy’s clenched fist. After lying him down with the rest of the bodies, the ambulance drove away taking with it a boy’s unfulfilled dreams and hopes.
(Acknowledgements: Voxy – Thank you for re-opening the half-closed door on a dream. The rest of my favourite bloggers: Psyched, Guyana-Gyal, Spicy Nadi, Viking Mike, Samay, Hani, Veiled Muslimah and Turaeg – your faith and encouragement humbles me. My gratitude to Bill – the wise one)
