Where the Air is Sweet

by Tasneem Jamal

  “It doesn’t matter,” she says. “Canada is taking us. They are offering us shelter when they owe us nothing. When we are nothing to them.”

  “Where did they come from? One day their offices are everywhere, in every town, like weeds,” Baku says.

  Raju looks up at him. He is sitting at the dining table with Baku, Jaafar and Gulshi’s husband, Ramzan. They are filling out paperwork distributed by the suddenly ubiquitous offices of the Departed Asians Property Custodian Board.

  “There are two forms that we need,” Jaafar says, ignoring Baku’s question. “Each form has the letters PRO at the top. Do you all have them both in front of you?”

  The papers are on the table in front of Raju, but he does not look at them.

  Jaafar continues. “One is a Declaration of Assets and the other a Declaration of Business and Industrial Interests.” He picks up one of the forms and begins reading. “We need to attach ‘copies of title deeds, debentures, loan agreements and contracts or any other agreements regarding these assets and liabilities, a certified true copy of the memorandum of association and articles of association of any companies and copies of the accounts, balance sheets or profit and loss account of the business for the last preceding two years as required or submitted for income tax purposes.’“

  “And if we don’t bother with this?” asks Ramzan. Raju’s son-in-law runs two pharmacies with his older brothers in Jinja.

  “Then you cannot leave Uganda,” says Jaafar. “Every departing Asian must fill them out. Once the forms are submitted and accepted, you will receive receipts. You need the receipts to exit the country.”

  “So the thieves want to itemize everything they are stealing?” Ramzan asks. “Already we have to fill out forms from the Bank of Uganda to release funds for our airline tickets and now this?”

  Jaafar nods, his eyes on the forms.

  “In my life, how many times have I filled out forms?” Raju asks. “I have applied for building permits, merchant’s licences, lease agreements, loan agreements, mortgages, insurance claims and God-knows-what else. I did it because it was necessary. We all became citizens to operate businesses here, not to become Ugandans. We were already Ugandans, since Uhuru, like everyone else.” He shakes his head. “Does Yozefu have a citizenship? Esteri? Of course not. They don’t own businesses. They don’t travel out of the country. But they are Ugandans: these Banyankole, these Baganda. What else can they be? But we must prove we are Ugandans.”

  “It isn’t fair,” says Baku.

  “What’s fair?” Raju asks, looking at his son. “It was easier for us than for Africans. We Indian merchants are well trained, even those with no schooling, in British ways. How do you explain to a man whose family has lived and farmed on a piece of land for hundreds of years that today he needs a piece of paper to build a house for his son? And now—” He picks up the forms in front of him, looks up and shakes them. “Now they are throwing these papers in our faces.”

  Mumtaz begins sorting through her belongings, deciding what to pack and what to leave behind. Jaafar has told her they can each take two suitcases and one small bag to carry on the plane. Even though they will airfreight a crate out of the country, it may not arrive for a very long time. “It’s best not to trust the African Ugandans anymore,” he told her. “The most important items must be packed in the suitcases.”

  Rehmat calls Mumtaz to her bedroom. She finds Rehmat sitting on her bed surrounded by open boxes of jewellery. “Select what you want,” Rehmat says, looking up at her. “Then I will let Khatoun have the rest.”

  Mumtaz sits down. “Ma, no,” she says.

  “I know this should be done after I die. But these times are strange.”

  Mumtaz does not move.

  Rehmat smiles and pats Mumtaz’s hand. “Beta, I have no need for these things. Gulshi is married.”

  Mumtaz stares at the necklace sets, the box full of bangles, the jumbled mass of tangled earrings. “Amir will marry eventually,” she says quietly.

  “Then you will need to give his bride something of mine. And your children, what about them?”

  Mumtaz feels her throat tighten. She cannot speak.

  “Let me show you what my mother left me,” Rehmat says.

  Mumtaz watches as Rehmat pulls a small velvet pouch from the bottom of one of the boxes. She opens it and drops a pair of gold jhumke earrings onto the bed. “I wore them as a girl. My mother put them in my ears with her hands,” she says, lifting her fingers to her ears, acting out a memory, a muscle memory.

  “They are beautiful,” Mumtaz says.

  “There is very little gold. They have very little worth in this world. But they are the only wealth I brought into my marriage.”

  “You brought you.”

  “I worked very hard to be a good daughter to this family,” Rehmat says, ignoring Mumtaz’s comment. “I worked hard to be worthy of them and of my husband. My father was poor and I was not beautiful, but they made me theirs. They gave me a home and a name, respectability, a life.” She stops, pauses. “But it comes at a cost,” she says slowly. “For a woman, these things come at a heavy cost.”

  Mumtaz picks up the jhumke. “I would like these.”

  “And what else?”

  “Nothing else.”

  Rehmat laughs. “I will give you much more than these earrings.”

  “If you wish,” says Mumtaz. “But these are all I want.”

  Mumtaz tells Esteri that after they are gone, she can keep Rehmat’s dishes, her saucepans, her cutlery and her sagri. Yozefu will have the knives. Mary, who has two small children, will take any children’s clothes Mumtaz leaves behind.

  One morning, Mumtaz sees Rehmat sitting on the floor of the kitchen separating cumin, coriander and turmeric into small bags. She looks up at Mumtaz. “They will fit in the suitcase,” she says. “And then there, where you go, you will have this. You will have something you know.”

  “We have helped many families from Malia. Apra gham vara, they will treat us well. They will treat us with respect.”

  Rehmat does not respond to Raju’s words. He looks at her. She is lying on their bed. She does not want to return to Malia. He knows by her expressions, her silence, that she does not. But he knows she will not defy him. She has never defied him. Raju is standing over his empty suitcase. He cannot think what to pack. He cannot begin to think what to pack. It was easy when he left Malia. He was strong then.

  Each time he tries to imagine Malia he sees his mother. She is young, her hair black, her skin smooth. He knows what he sees no longer exists. But the images keep coming. He presses his eyes shut. After a moment he opens them and looks at Rehmat. “I did everything as I should have done it.”

  She turns her head to face him.

  “I did everything that was asked of me. Always. I violated no laws of this land. I violated no laws of God. Why is this happening? What can I do?”

  She sits up.

  “How can I bear this?”

  “You are not alone,” she says, her voice weak.

  He sits down on their bed, heavily. He places his hand flat on the mattress, so that his fingers touch the fabric of Rehmat’s dress, so that he is next to her.

  “Let go.” She is breathing slowly, gathering her strength. “What life takes from you,” she says, placing her hand on his, “everything that life takes from you, let it go.”

  He shakes his head and takes hold of her hand, patting it with his other hand, smiling indulgently. She is a good woman, a good wife. But she is weak.

  “Bapa is determined to go to Malia,” Jaafar says, looking at Mumtaz. “I don’t know why he wants to go back. There is nothing there except poor families trying to send their children West.”

  It is late morning and they are in the sitting room.

  Mumtaz is staring out the window at the front garden. The dahlias are in full bloom. “It’s what he knows. He talks so big. But you know he’s terrified.” She looks at Jaafar. He has dark circles under his eyes.
It is the first time she has seen him looking this way. Tired. “Karim wants to give his toys to his school. It’s sweet. I explained it’s better to give them to the African schools. They are poor. They can use them. The British will be leaving soon enough, too.

  “I’m amazed he understands,” she says. “I don’t understand.”

  Rehmat walks into the sitting room. She is frighteningly pale. The effort of walking a few steps exhausts her. She sits down on the sofa next to Mumtaz, facing Jaafar. “I will not go back to Malia,” she says, breathlessly. “He can go alone.”

  Mumtaz looks at Jaafar and then at Rehmat.

  Rehmat leans towards Jaafar. “Will you take me with you?” She pauses to catch her breath before continuing. “To Canada?”

  He takes her hands in his. “Ma, of course. If that’s what you want. Of course.”

  She nods. “It is what I want.” She sits for a moment and then lifts herself, sighing loudly, and walks back to her bedroom.

  Mumtaz buries her face in her hands and cries.

  That afternoon, she gathers with her family in the front garden for a photograph. This is the first time they have been together since Jaafar and Mumtaz’s wedding. Gulshi suggested they take the picture. No one could think of a reason to refuse. Jaafar asks Yozefu to take the photograph. He has never taken one. He has never held a camera. He stands awkwardly, staring at Jaafar as he tries to explain how it works. Mumtaz takes the camera from him and walks in front of the family. She sees Jaafar open his mouth to speak, but he says nothing. She looks through the lens and narrows the aperture. She wants everything in the frame to be sharp, to be clearly visible, to be included.

  Rehmat is sitting on a chair. She is too weak to stand. Her pacheri has fallen forward on her head so that it acts as a canopy over her face, creating a dark shadow. Her eyes are sunken into her emaciated face. Her skin is sallow. She can barely lift her head to face the camera. Raju stands beside her, one hand resting on the back of her chair, the other hanging at his side. He is standing off-kilter, one hip higher than the other, a pose of indifference. Amir, Jaafar and Baku stand to his right. Khatoun, Gulshi and Ramzan stand to his left. When the shutter clicks, no one is smiling. They are exhausted. They are defeated.

  The Kodachrome film captures the colours behind the people: the green grass; the blue sky; the pink bougainvillea. In time, the colours will fade.

  After tucking the children in, Mumtaz goes to Rehmat’s room. She is sitting up in her bed, her face turned away from Mumtaz.

  “Ma?” she asks softly. “Can I bring you anything?”

  Rehmat looks at Mumtaz. She is not wearing her glasses. “I have to finish packing.”

  “We’ve finished. There is nothing more to do. It’s time to sleep now, Ma.”

  “We must go for medical tests, for the visas.”

  “Don’t worry. That’s not for two days,” Mumtaz says.

  “You will take care of it all, won’t you?”

  Mumtaz smiles.

  “You will take care of everyone.” She looks past Mumtaz, towards the door of the bedroom. “Look at her,” Rehmat says, and begins to laugh.

  Mumtaz turns. But no one is there. The doorway is empty. Except for the sleeping children and Rehmat and Mumtaz, the house is empty.

  “You came,” Rehmat says.

  “Me?” Mumtaz asks. But Rehmat is not looking at her. She is still looking at the empty doorway. “Who is it? Ma, who do you see?”

  Rehmat laughs again. Then she begins coughing, heavily, her head bent over, her body in spasms.

  Mumtaz reaches forward and holds her by the shoulders until the coughing stops. Rehmat leans back and closes her eyes. Mumtaz sits next to her and watches her. Rehmat inhales loudly, and then pauses for a few seconds before releasing her breath. She does this again and again. Mumtaz holds her breath. The spaces between Rehmat’s inhalations are growing longer. She stands up and prepares to walk out of the bedroom, to call someone. But Raju and Jaafar are not home. Yozefu cannot fetch them; he is gone for the night. She turns back and looks at Rehmat’s face. The skin is slack, the eyebrows sloped, drooping, tired. Mumtaz climbs onto the bed and lies beside her. She presses her cheek against Rehmat’s. The skin is soft and warm, the bones rigid, sharp. Mumtaz closes her eyes and inhales. For the rest of her life, the smell of lal thel mixed with talcum powder and sweat will bring Mumtaz to a place of calm, of quiet.

  “I’ll take care of everything, Ma.”

  The spaces between Rehmat’s breaths grow longer and longer, until no more breaths come, until only space remains.

  The family cannot carry out all the proper rituals after Rehmat’s death. They must leave Uganda well before the forty-day period of mourning has passed and, Jaafar tells Raju, they cannot offer oblations. No more money is being accepted in jamat khana. Only two weeks remain until the deadline. Most of the jamat is gone. The funeral is a small affair. With custom dictating women remain at jamat khana during the burial, only a handful of people are at the cemetery. Baku and Amir help Jaafar shovel red earth onto Rehmat’s body, which lies yards from her son’s grave. Raju watches.

  “She didn’t want to leave him alone,” Raju says as Jaafar drives him home. Rehmat. Bahdur. Those who left him behind. Those he must leave behind. This is all he can think. This is all he can imagine. Raju is keeping his hand on the dashboard, where he placed it flat to balance himself when he climbed into the car. If he lets go, he will fall.

  That night, Jaafar wakes Mumtaz. He tells her he dreamt of Bahdur. When Jaafar has dreamt of his brother in the past, they were both children, Jaafar always younger, always smaller. In this dream, Jaafar tells Mumtaz, he was a grown man, as he is now, thirty-three. And Bahdur was the age he was when he died, not yet thirteen. In the dream, Bahdur was looking up at Jaafar, his round eyes searching, beseeching.

  “You are the elder brother now,” Mumtaz says.

  He looks at her and shakes his head. “I am the father now.”

  Jaafar tells Raju he will travel with Baku to Canada. “You will be his dependent.”

  Raju is quiet. In the days since Rehmat died, his mind has grown quiet, the thoughts coming more slowly, less often, like a sea whose powerful waves have become calm. Jaafar tells him he has found a buyer for the garage, a man named Suleiman Mubinga. He is willing to pay 150,000 shillings for the entire business. He has already paid 50,000. But it will take him time to raise the rest of the cash. Jaafar and Amir will remain behind after the deadline to collect the money and to figure out a way to get it out of the country. Two days after Raju leaves for Canada with Baku and his family, Mumtaz and her children will travel to Britain. Though the children are Ugandan citizens, Mumtaz is a British national; they will go to the UK as her dependents. Canadian immigration policy requires the family to enter Canada together. Until Jaafar is ready to leave Uganda, Mumtaz, Karim and Shama will wait for him in Britain. It may be months before they all reach Canada and join Raju, who will be there already with Baku and Khatoun. Jaafar explains all of this to him, slowly. They are sitting on chairs under the mango tree. The fruit is making its first appearance of the season. Raju looks up into the leaves. This is his favourite time of the year.

  He looks at Jaafar.

  “I will not travel with Baku. I will stay with you.” The words, the thought behind them, come suddenly. Clearly.

  Jaafar lowers his eyes. His face is drawn, his shoulders slouching forward, a lock of black hair falling on his forehead. Raju can see that he is burdened, that he is burdening him. But he knows his son will not deny him this. This much he knows.

  “How can you stay?” Mumtaz asked Jaafar when he explained his plan to her earlier, in the privacy of their bedroom. “They are talking about putting Asians in detention camps after the deadline. And worse.” She put her hands on her face for a moment and then removed them. “Why are you doing this?”

  “I’m a Ugandan citizen. I can stay legally.”

  “They don’t care anymore.”

  �
��If it’s bad I can get out quickly. I have friends at immigration. I know this place, Mumtaz. This is my home. Whatever garbage that idiot says, this is my home. And I know how it works. I know how to work it.”

  “It’s changed. It’s gone mad. You don’t know it anymore.”

  He shook his head. “Even if I have to drive over the border into Rwanda, I’ll get out. Even if I have to follow footpaths in the forest, I’ll walk out.”

  “Why take the chance?”

  “We each get a personal allowance of 50 pounds sterling to take out of the country. That’s it. What the hell can we do with 50 pounds each? We have small children. I have to take care of them, of you, of Bapa. It is my responsibility.”

  She knew the conversation was finished. She turned away from him.

  “I have worked since I was a boy, Mumtaz. I have watched my father work. I will not be a beggar in a foreign land.”

  A week after Rehmat’s funeral, Gulshi, Ramzan and their children fly to the United Kingdom. Three days later, Baku, Khatoun and their children prepare to travel to Canada.

  Mumtaz is standing in the driveway. Khatoun has placed stacks of recently purchased gold bangles on the arms of her two daughters, up to the elbow. The bangles are hidden under loose-fitting tunics. Jaafar warned Khatoun that soldiers at checkpoints are ripping bangles, watches, necklaces, rings off people; they are going through suitcases to look for anything of value, anything they want. By the time Asians reach Entebbe Airport, their suitcases are only one-quarter full.

  “They are jawan chokri—young ladies,” Khatoun says as the girls, alternately groaning and giggling, climb into the back seat of Baku’s Peugeot. “They will be treated with respect.”

  “Maybe,” Jaafar says. Earlier, Mumtaz watched Khatoun hide more jewellery in the lining of her suitcase. She looks at her now, sitting in the back seat with her daughters, a self-satisfied smile on her face. The girls are holding cardigans. It is November and they have been warned Canada is cold.

  Baku sits in the passenger seat. Burezu will take them to the airport. Afterwards, Jaafar and Baku told him, he can keep the car. They have already transferred it to his name.