Empire of Mud

by James Suriano

  …

  The door opened and we spilled out. I’d lost all concept of time; it might have been hours or days. Pain and grief turn time into a rubber band. It was the same person who had locked us in here. He didn’t direct us, but we could see we were on a pier. The world smelled of salty air and diesel fuel. We were all disoriented and wandered like shell-shocked dogs.

  The man who let us out told us to keep quiet and follow him. The space around me was slowly coming into focus. Shipping crates, dark water, and cranes. I imagined a great wall of water coming over the fortress of concrete and steel. Did the civilization here have the power to keep the water out or at least keep everything from crumbling beneath it? It was a question I asked myself whenever I came close to water.

  The main entrance to the port was ahead. The razor-wire-topped fence, bright lights, and three guards gave it away. We ducked behind a building and followed it until we reached a small gate in the fence that was closed but not locked. We filed through it; on the other side, we were on an unused side road that ended with a white cinder-block wall. We stopped in a circle.

  “What do we do now?” I looked at the woman who had been on this journey before.

  “I’m not sure. I’ve never made it this far.” She looked around at the circle of women who were forming.

  The man closed the gate, then walked back toward the ship. Two feral dogs snarled at us from the corner of the street, but they didn’t dare approach such a large group. A man emerged from the door of a building with two kicked-out windows and shushed the dogs with a snap.

  I felt an urge to run. We must have been much closer to my home than Dubai. The man talked in Urdu, a language that I’d heard from visitors and that one of my great uncles spoke for reasons I can’t remember. He was waving his hands like he was conducting an orchestra, and his shirt was half tucked in with grease stains on it. One of the women in our group could speak to him; she looked to be pleading with him. Her face was sunken; the trip had taken its toll on her.

  The man pulled a pad from under his arm and flipped through the pages until he found what I guessed was her name. He told her to stand near the middle of the road. He subsequently looked us all up and divided us into three groups. The two weaving ladies and I separated.

  I thanked them, and they blew kisses to me and looked as though they were wishing me well on my journey forward.

  When we had all separated, the man gave each group directions. To us, he gave a crinkled hand-drawn map with the word “Karachi” spelled out on the top and an X at one end and then arrows leading to a crudely drawn airplane. I led the group because no one else seemed to have the instinct to do so. There were eight of us, six women who could have been me, a man about my age, and an older woman who had trouble keeping up with us. The slack wires that crisscrossed over the road had streetlights attached that bathed the dirt roads in a mustard haze. I knew this road because Colombo had similar elements. The dust, the weaving human traffic, the buzz of poorly maintained rickshaws, the crackling oil of open food stalls, the guttural bargaining of shoppers, the congestive beeping of motorists oppressed by gridlock.

  We walked for hours, moving into a multilane road. The sun rose, reflecting off the buildings, urging the city to wake up. Cars and busses took to the road. A determined but tired populace rose. The old woman in our group signaled she needed to use the bathroom. We were next to an empty stretch of land. Having been in Dubai, I realized how quickly I became accustomed to the organization and purpose with which the city operated. In contrast, Karachi was a city in convulsion, a new building with luxurious finishes, next to an abandoned sagging wreck of concrete, a stretch of modern cabling attached to a telephone pole of questionable integrity. It appeared to have two different minds racing in separate directions: one toward the future and one toward the past. The old woman finished her business but looked beleaguered.

  A city bus, belching black smoke, pulled to the side of the road. The door opened, and the driver looked at our group expectantly. A damaged pole had bent so that its sign was facing the ground. I realized this was a bus stop. Nature had called us to stop in the place we needed to be. We charged for the bus like agitated schoolchildren; the first step was missing and it was more of a leap than a climb to get to the till next to the driver. I breathed deeply, expecting the refreshment of cool air. Instead, I encountered the dank residue of an unshowered humanity mixed with a lukewarm atmosphere, which left me regretting my decision of such deep inhalation. I passed the driver, pushed by the women behind me. He yelled in Urdu and flapped his hand in the air, then banged on the coin collector.

  I took my seat. He realized his error of letting us on, muttered exasperated words to himself, then moved the bus on. I watched him, touched by his kindness or pragmatism, whichever he was displaying, each an honorable quality. I felt a tingle looking at him. His eyebrows connected, his slightly unshaven beard framing his tight angular jaw. But it was his nose, perfectly formed, with a dimple or scar at the bridge that drew me to him. I had a strange vision of Mewan sitting on his lap, delighted to be in control of a vehicle of size. He looked similar to Pramith, my husband, and my entire being cried out to be close to him again.

  We stopped again, and then he floored the gas and we took off down the main road.

  I stood up and filed past the few riders still finding a seat. I got to him and bent down to his ear level. “Is this the way to the airport?” I lingered to feel the heat of his body radiate.

  He looked at me with something I couldn’t place. It was somewhere between annoyance and intrigue. He said something to me in English, and I shook my head. Then he smiled, exposing a gap in the whiteness, reached over, and stroked my chin. He spoke again, then went back to driving. My head felt like someone had opened all the windows and a stiff breeze had blown through. Then he pointed hard at a sign. It was an airplane and he gave me a thumbs-up.

  Eventually we arrived, and we stepped off the bus and looked up at the terminal entrance. The airport had decided to go toward the future. The front of it had shaded sheets of glass between sand-colored, fortress-type end towers. I pulled out the piece of paper the man at the pier had given us and flipped it back and forth. On the back side of the paper was a long number. When we were together we went inside. Jets roared overhead, and the smell of fuel and disinfectant permeated the building. I walked to one of the counters.

  “Peace be on you.” That was one of the few Urdu phrases I knew.

  I must have said it wrong, because the woman directed me to the other end of the airport. I saw my flag hanging above two ladies who were helping customers.

  I led our group, waited in line, and when it was my turn, I approached. “We are trying to get back to Sri Lanka,” I said.

  They looked at each other, then typed a few things into their keyboard. “Do you have a ticket?”

  “I don’t know.” I was relieved they understood me. I pushed the long number toward them; one of them input it into her computer, then looked back up at me.

  “Nine of you?” She looked behind me at the group of women.

  “Eight.”

  “Are you sure? Because this is a group ticket purchased for nine. Once I redeem it, you’ll lose the ninth space.”

  Who had been left behind? Who was supposed to make it out of Dubai? It wasn’t something I could consider now that I had to look out for those of us here.

  “Just eight.” I handed her Ousha’s passport. The others followed suit and stacked them in front of the ticket agent.

  The printer next to her hummed, and she slid the ticket into each of the corresponding passports. She handed them back to me in an organized pile.

  “Have a wonderful flight.” Her smile wasn’t genuine. I didn’t care, because these tickets were and I was going home.

  Missing Pieces

  Two days later, I set foot on the sandy port shore of my village. It had been almost three months since my feet had touched this holy ground, but it felt like a year or that
I had imagined the horrors in one unpunctuated stream. Except I knew my mind wasn’t capable of producing such dreams. Minrada had done right by me, and I hoped she had received some of the bounty from the two priceless eggs I had used to pay along the way. If not, she surely had erased a touch of bad karma. I walked over the main road. More buildings had gone up, and bodies swirled through the natural landscape. There was a tree constructed of fashioned branches with monkeys in it. I almost didn’t notice the leashes around their necks and the teenage boy standing beneath it, enticing them with treats to greet tourists and picture takers.

  “Welcome home,” he said, waving.

  The anonymous rejection of Dubai and Pakistan gone, I was a person again, to be acknowledged and spoken to.

  “Thank you. I’m happy to be here.” I touched his shoulder as I passed him. His monkeys squawked at me.

  The walk to my house flooded me with memories. My parents with Ruka in their arms; her toddling through the sand; my wedding to Pramith, which had taken place in the clearing away from the tourist area with the green-and-white variegated circle of low-cut hedges; and always the great wave. I was standing in front of my house. The door was open; someone was inside, a body lying down, a leg I didn’t recognize. I grabbed the broom, which was leaning against outside of the house, and poked the leg. Definitely a woman’s.

  “Hey, you,” I called. “What are you doing in my house?”

  She rose, slowly, like a zombie.

  “What are you waking me up for? Ain’t no time to go to work.”

  “This is my house.” I forced the end of the broom into the dirt, staking out my space.

  “No one has been here for weeks.” When I finally saw her whole self, I recognized her. Her name was Keldi. She was temperamental, and no one wanted to work with her, which was why she was often homeless.

  “I’ve been away, but my daughter is here with my son.”

  “Haven’t seen them.”

  She likely didn’t know who they were, but still, where was Ruka?

  “I’ll be back. Get your stuff and get out.” I went to Kiyoma’s house, where I thought she might be. When I arrived, Kiyoma’s mother was in front of the house playing a game with Mewan. In the short time I’d been gone, he had grown and was walking more steadily and talking.

  “Sweetie!” I yelled, which made Kiyoma’s mother turn to me. I got to Mewan and scooped him off the ground, kissing his face and mouth endlessly. At first, he squirmed against me, pushing back what I assume he might have found to be a relentless force before giving into the love. I bounced him around, then looked at Kiyoma’s’ mother. “Have you seen Ruka?”

  She looked puzzled at the question.

  “No?”

  Her mouth moved to say something, but she was still working through my question.

  “My daughter, Ruka?”

  “You don’t know?” she finally said. She stood up and dusted herself off.

  “Know what?”

  She spread her feet apart as though she were going to be buffeted by a strong wind. “That …”

  My mind made a journey to terrible places. Places where Ruka was no longer, where Mewan was my last remaining tether to an existence my soul would flee if given the opportunity.

  She gave a scratchy cough, then put her head into the wind. “That she went with Khalid? She said you knew, that you were okay with it. That life was good there and it was the best thing …”

  I’m not sure if the sky opened at that point, or if my senses had turned on and absorbed every piece of external pricking to shield myself from the internal fire that had erupted inside me, searing away at my emotions as though they were fragile tendons.

  “When?” The word itself felt like a jagged knife scraping down my spine, because it made real the truth that she really was gone.

  “A week ago maybe? Not long. Khalid said life was great there. He said you were enjoying it and wished your daughter would join you.”

  I churned through the households I knew had openings in Dubai. The place, so far away when I first set foot on my village shore, rushed back to me with vigor.

  “You’re sure she went to Dubai?”

  She shook her head, then held out her arms in front of her to hug me. I wasn’t mad at her, but I needed action, not solace from a concerned mother.

  “Anything else?” I wanted to get back to my house. To ground myself before figuring out what I could do. She still had her arms out to me, but I turned and walked away. When I had passed four trees, she called out, “You know he’s still here.”

  Those words ignited an anger in me so fierce that I frightened myself. Mewan felt it too and began to bellow.

  “Where?” I demanded.

  “He’s staying in the tourist tents near the river.”

  Mewan and I walked until we were at the tourist settlement. I knew locals weren’t allowed in here. We were an attraction to be looked at, but they didn’t want us coming too close or encroaching on their luxury.

  A guard stepped into my path. He was from our village. “You can’t go in there. This is the line.”

  The line, as he said, was a ridiculous thin piece of red string held up by plastic reflectors shoved into the sand.

  “Fine enough.” I’d sit where I could see the main path connecting the front of the tents into a makeshift hotel. I rubbed my fingers together, digging my nail into my thumb. At stressful times like this, I felt the lingering effects of the polio. One half of my body felt tense and weak in unison. I would watch for Khalid; Mewan would have to control his hunger for a few hours. The guard ignored me. From the beginning, he realized I wasn’t a threat, and whatever I was up to did little to arouse his interest. Most of the people who entered and exited the tents were Westerners, with thin white skin and flimsy constitutions. Mewan was pulling at my hair. I looked down at him to see what he wanted; he was contemplating me, and I wondered if he knew I might have to leave again. I rubbed his nose in tight circles, then returned to my surveillance.

  I heard Khalid before I saw him. The guffawing, wide laughs, the open syllables of his speech drawing everyone in. It didn’t make much sense that he was with tourists, except that these were the nicest accommodations, and Khalid was a man accustomed to nice things.

  When he came into sight, every muscle in my body constricted and my scalp pulled the hair toward the back of my head. The guard was looking at his phone, ignoring me. I gravely wanted to stand and run at Khalid, demand answers. This was my emotion, though, and it wouldn’t give answers, however satisfying the confrontation would be. Khalid finished his conversation with someone I couldn’t see and ducked into his tent. In the last row, against the trees. Three from the end. Easy to remember.

  My heart ached for Ruka, her sassy obstinacy challenging me. It was a trait I couldn’t imagined having displayed with my mother, but these times were different, and it showed me that women were gaining power, millimeter by millimeter. When Khalid was no longer visible, I left. My return wouldn’t be so peaceful.

  Machete

  A panel of woven palm fronds was coming loose from the front of the house. I pulled it off, set it inside, unwrapped my spare sari, and laid it on top so Mewan could lie down and then I could wrap him. Although the air was warm, a chilled dampness was creeping in. I felt nostalgia and pride for my home, inflated by the furious energy sparking from my body. I fed Mewan coconut paste, then went to the common area where the fronds were stacked up and pulled a bundle loose. This was one of the few things our unstructured village shared. Probably because they were in such abundance and almost everyone used a part of the coconut trees in one part of their life or another.

  The shadows of the forest canopy looked like delirious insects dancing on the sandy ground. I knew night would be here soon, and I had to look for the calm light inside me to ground my head until I made my move.

  …

  Mewan was asleep; Kiyoma’s mother said she would listen for his cries. I walked to where the fronds and coconuts w
ere piled. There was a tree where the machetes hung. I ran my finger along the blades until I found the sharpest one and it drew a line of blood. I pulled it from the nail it hung on and hid it in my sari. The last slivers of light disappeared in the sky. The land was moonless, with the continuous night shadow interrupted only by the burning torches.

  A different guard was there now. It didn’t matter, because he wasn’t going to see me. I veered into the thick trees. There wasn’t a path, and the fear of stepping on an unsuspecting snake normally would have kept me out of such dense plants. I reached the back of Khalid’s tent. When my fingers touched the rough fabric, I let them slide against it. I wanted to make sure I had a feeling to ground myself against, when the fury I knew was coming clouded all I could see.

  My hand slipped into the fold of the tent, and I unfastened the ties. I knew Khalid’s headboard would be against this area. When they were undone, I lay on my stomach, pushed the machete ahead of me under his bed, then pulled my body against the floor of the tent until I smelled the tea he was brewing. He was whispering to himself, quiet musings of his day. I peered out from behind the headboard; he was sitting in a chair, legs crossed, pawing through the booklet he had shown me the first day I’d met him. Next to that was a journal where he was ticking off items I couldn’t see. I crawled out on the other side of the bed, where one of the two lamps hung. When I had my feet placed firmly on the ground, I lunged and extinguished the lamp. I knew it would have the effect of only letting him see what was next to him.

  “Who’s there?”

  I was against the wall; I knew I had seconds until his eyes adjusted and he’d be able to see me move. He reached for something in his pocket. I wondered if he had a knife or, worse, a gun. I tightened my fingers around the handle of the machete. Khalid turned for a moment to look toward the bed. I was behind him and pulled back to avoid him feeling my breath. I reached for his shoulder, and my hand hovered, the machete raised at the level of his neck. A slight move and the blade would make contact with his throat.