M: Patience. [O: She sips some Tang. Watches me.]
Brother and I reiterate our stance: We shall hunt a child. Someone new to the building. We would scam this child into creeping up to the steel pimp’s parlor.
We pitch our idea again. When’s the next man coming? we ask.
Quick man, quick, Brother and I urge Mushtibushi. Make up your mind! We had a fewgiver to tail. Tonight. A fewgiver to rob. Time’s clip-e-t-y clap-e-ting away. Why couldn’t he understand? Stubborn, filthy-minded machine!
Maybe, I suggest, I could leave Brother behind and go do the needful robbing of fews? Deposit a new kid later? No, says Brother. Brother is sometimes a bastard. But Mushtibushi mulls. I hear his engine purr, but the signs aren’t good.
So he put us here. Do you see it now, can you? [O: She’s standing up on the table again, pointing, circling, like a dervish.] We are still HERE, in his rumbling, ping-filled, yellow-buttoned belly, buttons Brother and I try to reach, but Mushtibushi yanks them way, holding them higher than our legs can go. And time we know is clip-e-t-y clap-e-ting away, away. In a few minutes, somewhere out there, a fewgiver has begun his trek to collect his fews from a runaway—Father. Someone like Roundy Little, maybe roundier. [O: Maya sits down again.]
Go ahead, then, we encourage Mushtibushi. Do what you will. We expect the doors to open, men to enter.
Quiet. Forever. Quiet.
We get desperate. We must leave! Again, nothing, only quiet. The sound that sound makes when it dies. The meanie makes us wait. He naps, his belly full with Brother and me. Maybe someone might walk in now, we think. Like Brother’s first time, Brother adds. Walks in, Man does, Father knows Man, Man says hello, grabs Brother’s wee-wee, fingers dancing, breath wheezing, mouth hissing, lips screaming “whee-whee!”
Or. Maybe. As it was with me, arms appear out of nowhere, everywhere, like air. Peek-a-boo, arms say, touching everywhere, allwhere, playing twisty-twirly tight. I—little girlie— fight, but no! No can do, pinned, pinned, fuck the “boo hoos,” I wait out my twisty-twirly plight.
We reminisce in this manner.
We wait.
Mushtibushi calmly pythons us, and our hopes, in his belly.
In a few minutes, a fewgiver nearby approaches Father’s and Mother’s door, demanding his precious fews. This fewgiver must also be paid. Otherwise, he would be forced to do the necessary needful: Invoke the law. Cash the blank check. Appropriate the collateral.
Brother and I must get out!
D: You know what “appropriate” means?
M: And you don’t? A compromise is not impossible. We could involve the fewgiver we intended to rob. If he likes petting, we could let him check how our bones have grown, whether hair’s growing in the right places. Mushtibushi can watch. That should sate him. We could then follow the fewgiver back to his home, where we check if his bones are growing in the right places, whether the hair is growing in the right places. Otherwise, we could just sit next to him. As long as he wants. Indeed. Doing enough to eliminate the unfortunate fews, few by few, collected by Father, who by now is grinless, speckless.
Oh, our poor Father! Our Manufacturist.
But all that, Brother and I concur, is possible only if the steel pimp talks instead of hibernating. The belly’s so quiet. Even the ghosts are bored. Casper’s sleeping.
Silence is Mushtibushi’s revenge. His comeuppance—stop twitching your eyebrow! look up the word if you don’t know it!—is like Mother’s when she can’t find us after she beats us and we hide. Beats us with slippers and sticks and wiry red circuit bits, Mother bang-banging Brother or me like a drum, as we run and bump into corners and squares for safety, ending up in the tiny toilet with the Cookie Monster blue tiles, where Brother or I sleep and suck thumb, while Mother maneuvers to break in. Unsuccessful, Mother sulks, sitting still like a demon tree, speaking after days, hugging after days, while we, Brother and I, keep a careful distance. But the chaos is quiet. We are quiet. And so Mushtibushi is now, too, quiet. Wily like Mother, as boom-boom crazy, pretty much same-same, relishing his revenge. As much as Mother enjoys hers.
But I am lovely. Girlie. Precocious. Twelve, not ten. Soon, thirteen. Me.
Tough, too. Stubborn, uncatchable, and uneatable, like Jerry. Mushtibushi wants us to fist his insides, scream and cry. I tell Brother we will resist. Why? Power is a game. In my family, we children, we sell everything. Only tears, not for sale. So we sit and farm plans for nicking the needed fews from as many fewgivers as possible. Brother suggests hiding in bed dressed up as Father before the fewgiver visits, or building a new home out of Kellogg’s Honey Smacks, luring unsuspecting diabetic fewgivers Father’s way, catching them all, releasing nobody till they cough up a few fews or absolve Father from his customary fews. We even consider—snigger snigger—again enlisting Mushtibushi’s help in netting fewgivers interested in brother’s wee-wee or my pee-pee. To then Polaroid the vermin so we could blackmail the guilty for a few fews at 60 percent interest. In return for Mustibushi’s help, we would send him many friends we do not like from other buildings. Like that boy with the bumble-bee girth who lives near Airport Road, the one who pulls my hair. We discuss and plan while Mushtibushi continues to snooze. A rumble interrupts our chat, but Brother and I continue to master plan our master plan.
When Mushtibushi completes his catnap, he is, as expected, frustrated. Like Tom Cat. Brother and I have continued to farm our plans, unperturbed. When pythoned, victims are required to squeal. We clearly rebel against decorum. Up yours, we say. Do as you please. [O: She shows me the finger. Grins. I spot a growing lateral incisor.] To Mutsibushi, we are as much fun as oatmeal now. Still, Brother is perceptive to Mushtibushi’s moods and is nervous. I command Brother to continue master planning our master plan. The gambit works. Mustibushi prefers children to weep or scream. Disappointed, Mushibushi retches, detoxes his belly.
The doors open, we are flung out: Brother, out; Me, out.
We land on our bums but pick ourselves up, unhurt, certain we missed the evening’s fewgiver; our chance to steal a few fews, gone, for a few hours longer.
Damn that fucker, we damned, but lamenting wouldn’t do; regret wasted time, letting fewgivers slip away, while Father continued to flounder, grinless, damaged.
And then and there I—me—spot the littlest girl I have ever seen sitting on a bag waiting for one of her Manufacturists to fetch her and take her home in the elevator. I know her sibling but I don’t know her. She’s perfect, I tell Brother. For what? he asks. Then he understands. We inspect the merchandise from afar. Then both he and I decide she will do. There are fewgivers to catch and bag, and we mustn’t be disturbed ever again. We determine it’s important to be on the steel pimp’s good side— right now!— so he never pythons us again. The children us two don’t have time for that shit. The children us two plan to be busy. As we wander over to her, I remember details—someone’s birthday, her bobbing up and down on an uncle’s knee, unable to move, as her uncle squeals, rubs her legs, insists on playing horsey-horsey. Birthday attendees laugh.
A man approaches, wrapped like a Bedouin. Not a fewgiver, but he eyes her littlest face and asks her if she is waiting for someone. He speaks Tongue. Mother, she says. Her Tongue, less refined. She is learning. In school, Tongue is compulsory.
You know Tongue, too, don’t you? Tongue’s hard to speak if people refuse to speak in Tongue with you. But I heard you speaking Tongue with that man in the stairway once. And with that nanny—from Colombo, right?—near the bins. When you spoke Tongue, she spoke Tongue. A year ago? Two? Oh, two —
D: You must be mistaken. I—
M: My, my, you quiver. Did your body thrum? Does it continue to thrum? Tell me—wait! Any closer, I bite you. TOUCH me, I jump on your back, bite you like a tick, burrow, scream. Brother will come, jump on your head, swallow your head, hang on until Manufacturists surround this room, like a million Smurfs. One Manufacturist will make the call. Then we will all wait for Them to come, which they will. So, slowly now, sit back, write
. SIT DOWN!
D: OK, OK...
M: We want nothing to do with you since you pick on people as tall as you. But they like it, it seems. I think. Hehe. But you still stare below my chin. I notice, so careful. Include all of this if you want, include our—here’s another word for you—scuffle, but write, write the rest of it.
Write...
I can take you, Bedouin Man offers. He smiles. Littlest shakes her head, he persists. She relents. He holds her hand and waits near Mushtibushi. The doors open. Brother watches. The littlest one is nervous. She looks around, spots me. I look at her, smile. It’s fine, my face seems to say. It’s all right, I then say, making sure Mushtibushi hears me. Brother understands. He, too, repeats what I say. Hi, she says to us. Bye, she says to us. And we say no more, watching as the littlest legs bouncy bouncy bounce through the open doors, but we don’t stop her now, or follow. I am, repeat after me, girlie, precocious, twelve, not ten, soon, thirteen. Me. I know there are fewgivers to chase, so this fucker must be fed. Brother and I wait, wondering if we might need to fetch Father tonight, our few-hunting hopes crushed like tin, when we hear a sound, a low moan, mimicking an injured animal. Mushtibushi purrs. Brother and I look up; the elevator is on the third floor and it isn’t budging. We run. Press our ears against Mushtibushi’s steel skin. We listen. And then we hear: The littlest one. Pythoned.
But get on with it, get on with it, I plead. I told. I tell. Us children are busy.
*
INCIDENT REPORT
NAME OF RESPONSIBLE ADULT
Debashish Panicker
INCIDENT LOCATION
Hamdan Street, Golden Watch Building, Near Old Al Maria Cinema
DATE OF INCIDENT
May 5, 1991
DATE OF INTERVIEW:
May 5, 1991
DATE OF REPORT FILED:
May 6, 1991
CHARACTER ASSESSMENT OF VICTIM:
N/A. Child (Pure)
INTERVIEW SYNOPSIS
Regrettably, no major clues pinpointing the culprit’s whereabouts. No concrete leads. Full names of victim and witness, details of parents, legal paperwork, copies of passports, have been submitted to the shurtha and included as separate documents alongside this report.
CONCLUSIONS
It can be confirmed the culprit is a man, and he molested a little girl in the building elevator and urinated on the child when he was finished. The child refused to speak, so this report is based on the statement of a witness at the scene—another little girl, albeit older.
The witness, M’s, attempt to pinpoint the man’s language and ethnicity is sketchy at best. Malayalam, her native tongue, was not used, nor was she privy to Urdu, Tamil, Hindi, or English, languages she speaks or understands with varying degrees of fluency. It’s possible, she suggested, the man spoke Arabic, but the witness isn’t fluent enough to discern Arabic dialects, or confirm whether the perpetrator is a native speaker. However—and this is unfortunate, because the child believes it is Arabic she probably heard—her observation about the man’s outfit carries a bit of weight. Especially if she has shared these insights with her parents, and her parents in turn have sought advice elsewhere. The culprit, the girl believes, wore a kandoura, but it’s possible she could have misidentified the garb, or even misidentified the man’s nationality.
Given the sensitivity of the accusations, I would argue it is irresponsible to blindly believe the allusions of a distressed child, especially by giving this testimony an importance it does not merit. Even though it’s possible an Emirati national may have done this, it would be foolish to assume the culprit at large is an Emirati solely on the basis of this circumstantial evidence. For instance, I myself have seen Malayalee chauffeurs in kandouras driving Toyota 4x4s or dusty Land Rovers. These men speak good Arabic—accented, but good Arabic. Upon scrutiny—the shape of beards, bone structure, gait, gravitas—it is clear these men cannot and do not possess all the attributes of authentic Emiratis, but if the uninformed were to come across these men at the Iranian carpet merchants, near Mina or Khalidiya, the possibility for mistakes does arise. What we can ascertain, if M’s right, is that the man who committed this act knows Arabic and dresses like a national. We, however, do not know if he’s a temporary worker or a local. We do not even know if this man is new to the country or a long-time resident, or perhaps even an illegal. In other words, we know little, and the sexual molestations of children have continued unabated.
But this report concerns what has been done to a helpless child, and I regret to admit that beyond speculation, my session with the witness has not come to much. The culprit has unfortunately gotten away. I do have one suggestion, which, with funds permitting, I hope can be implemented.
Before the machines are decommissioned, I strongly advise the installation of cameras in the building elevators to keep an eye on tenants and guests using the machines—especially the children. A test phase, during which a camera is installed in the elevator where the incident took place, is recommended. If monitoring these images is considered a tedious affair, and volunteers are unavailable, I am willing to watch the tapes myself if they are sent to my attention, or if a viewing station is set up in clandestine quarters on the premises, in my flat, or elsewhere, I will try and make time to watch them in real time, if necessary. I am also recommending that we do not share my proposition with the tenants. With this system in place, we should be able to apprehend would-be offenders in the act, and may indeed do so. However, if many people are involved, which I feel might be the case, then it is imperative we act now. I am, therefore, suggesting we watch everything and everyone, including the elevators, starting with the one in the middle.
CHABTER TWO
GLOSSARY
IN 1991, AN ENGLISH-SPEAKING teen who went to an Indian school in Abu Dhabi was waiting to cross the street, when his tongue abandoned him by jumping out of his mouth and running away. Before the young man could apprehend and discipline the escaping appendage, it had grown limbs, a face, a mouth, a tiny proboscis, and fountain-pen blue hair, and thus, free at last, sprinted towards oncoming traffic, where it smashed into a massive vundy ferrying famished school kids who were released from the drudgeries of learning, causing all the nouns the now-deceased tongue had accumulated in its time in the boy’s mouth to be released into the air like shrapnel, hitting and injuring unsuspecting inanimate and animate things. Verbs, adjectives, and adverbs died at the scene, but the surviving nouns, tadpole sized, see through, fell like hail. Some, even accurately. The word Kelb found a mangy dog and settled in the mutt’s eye, puncturing its cornea. The word Vellum plummeted into a little puddle, where it sank to the bottom, meeting the word Maai. Both Vellum and Maai, troubled at first to discover each other, negotiated to cohabit as roommates. The words Motherfucker and Kus Umuk weren’t as cordial when they stumbled upon one another, crash landing side by side. Motherfucker insisted Kus Umuk needed to scram. Kus Umuk disagreed. They fought it out, Motherfucker ending Kus Umuk’s life as the Mallu man whose face they slit when they smashed into him waited by the side of the road for assistance. Because nouns dropped like hail, there were mistakes. The words Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles hit a window, but the word most apt to hit the window, Khiraki, crashed into a light bulb. Some words meant for animals, like Kelb, found the right animal, but most words found the wrong animal. The word Poocha, perfect on a cat, landed on thawing mutton. Himar maimed a chicken’s beak; its English equivalent, Donkey, speared a pigeon’s throat. The word Paksi landed on a housefly’s thorax, missing the mynah on the lamppost. These were mistakes. There was also trauma. Because the nouns had been expelled so violently, many ended up mangled, some unrecognizable. These damaged nouns, like Wifebeater and Veed and Secret Police, were everywhere—unclaimed, hanging off rafters, store signs, pedestrians. Some mutilated nouns, however, landed on the right things. Saiyaara landed on a car’s hood. Burger sliced a Hardees bun. Yet these words were missing letters. Saiyaara had become Sara; Burger, Bug.
Ther
e was more to follow. Absolute confusion occurred when nouns designating race landed on the wrong people. The word Arabee attached itself to a Mumbaiker man and wouldn’t let go, while Hind refused to be pried from a Local’s knee, just as the word Saaipu plunged into a Sudanese woman’s vein, swimming like a tapeworm towards the woman’s brain, as a white Eurasian lady looked on, before noticing two writhing nouns, Kaalia and Blackie, copulating on her wrist.
When the shurtha arrived in patrol cars, followed by paramedics, they tried to take charge of the situation. The paramedics removed the English-speaking boy’s tongue from the street, treated victims going into shock, and threw blankets over dead nouns that did not survive the accident. The shurtha issued orders to onlooking street cleaners to bottle any found nouns into glass jars normally meant for toffee, borrowed from grocery stores operated by kadakarans with names like Saleem Ikka or Ahmad Kutty. Then, as witnesses filled the shurtha in on what may have happened, they were taken to see the English-speaking boy, who refused to open his mouth to speak because he was afraid his teeth would be as mutinous as his tongue, abandoning him like a defecting army, emptying his mouth of everything worthy. The English-speaking boy wrote this all out on a piece of kadalaas the shurtha tore from an official-looking notebook. He also sensed, the boy wrote, that a few words had been left behind in his mouth, clinging to his tonsils, and he didn’t want to lose them, too. Nonsense, the shurtha said, assuring the fellow they would find his missing words, and one by one, would put them back into his English-speaking mouth. Really? the boy meant to say, but couldn’t say, so he opened his mouth, which loosened his last words from his tonsils, pushing them out into the world, removed from the safety of the boy’s mouth, popping out as a phrase, which, as soon as it hit the asphalt, began to wheeze as though inflicted with acute bronchitis. Then, unable to breathe, the words turned blue. The panicked boy retrieved the asphyxiating phrase and was trying to stuff the words back into his mouth before an alert paramedic with goldfish lips snatched his last words, Yabba Dabba Doo, the first English phrase his grandfather taught him to say, and performed CPR. For fifteen minutes, the paramedic tried to resuscitate Yabba Dabba Doo, but he couldn’t. When the English-speaking boy realized his last words were no more—gone, like his grandfather—he swallowed Yabba Dabba Doo’s body whole, refusing to open his mouth to eat or drink or let in fresh air. Before the shurtha could comfort the boy, he heard the sound of running feet—at least fifty, maybe more. He turned. A mob of agitated English-speaking young teens, from the same Indian school, judging by the boy’s reaction, all bleeding from their mouths, were yelling incoherently, in pursuit of pinkish-red tongues growing redder with exertion as they escaped their desperate pursuers on newly sprouted limbs, refusing to be taken alive, heading in the direction of the old souk, the breakwaters by the corniche, or wherever they could hide. On the bodies of the escaping tongues, the shurtha noticed, were words—nouns, verbs, adverbs, prepositions, conjunctions—he knew, kinda knew, couldn’t identify, words fastidiously clinging on, ferocious things with swinging tails.
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