by Anar Ali
“Yes, sir, I will do anything you ask. Please, I only ask that you give me another chance.”
Mr. Khaki looked at his wife to gauge her reaction, but she was still distraught and had not absorbed any of the conversation. Mr. Khaki shook his head and wondered why it had taken his wife this long to discover that a terrible spell had been cast on their child. What the hell had she been doing with her time? He looked at Baby Khaki and noticed she wasn’t even wearing anjar under her eyes. He turned the child’s ear down. No anjar there, either! For God’s sake, his wife hadn’t taken any of the normal precautions to ward off evil! Did she not possess any common sense? As he looked at Mrs. Khaki, still sitting on the floor with her head on the edge of the cot, hair dishevelled, face smudged with makeup, he wondered for the first time if he should have listened to his mother’s warning about the terrible luck in his wife’s family. Yes, she was beautiful, but in the end, she had still produced a deformed child for him and no amount of beauty could outweigh this fact. Perhaps he should have considered other qualities when he was choosing a wife.
Mr. Khaki walked over to his wife, leaned down, and slapped her. “Useless bitch.”
Mrs. Khaki was in such a daze that she hardly even felt the sting across her face. It was as though this new knowledge about her life, the idea that something this terrible could happen to her, to her of all people, broke her like a wooden spoon across a knee, and paralyzed her. “Why me? Why me?” was all she could utter.
Mr. Khaki turned his gaze to Aisha. “You will have to pay for the rest of your life—you understand?”
“Yes, sir. I understand.”
Mr. Khaki explained to Aisha that from now on she would have to report to him and that he would be the one to give her instructions with regard to the baby’s care. As well, he would make prompt arrangements for the surgical removal of Baby Khaki’s wings.
Aisha recoiled as she remembered her own barbaric attempt at cutting off the baby’s wings. No! Aisha thought. “Please, bwana, do not cut them off.” Aisha picked up the baby from the cot and held her tightly against her breast.
A flicker of heat shot straight up Mr. Khaki’s body and flushed his face. How dare she give me instructions on how to run my house! His arms reached out and pried the baby away from Aisha. He doubled the baby over his arm like a sack of rice, folded a wing, and ripped if off, then and there, like a page in a book.
The baby wailed. Aisha reached out and let the amputated wing land like a leaf on her palm.
Mr. Khaki held the baby toward Aisha in outstretched arms. “This, this is your bloody fault!”
The weight of the wing on Aisha’s palm gave her a sudden conviction. She yelled loudly and clearly, “No! This is not my fault!” She grabbed the baby back from Mr. Khaki and ran straight out of the room.
Mr. Khaki could not believe the audacity of this servant-girl! He ran after her, determined to teach her a good lesson. He turned the corner and pursued her down the stairs, but then his eyes caught the scabbard lashed on the hall chair and he smiled, certain that no servant-girl would ever outsmart him. He returned to the bedroom and waited by the window.
Mr. Khaki heard a door being inched open and, soon enough, he saw Aisha running across the garden, the baby tucked in a kanga wrapped across her body. Mr. Khaki pushed open the window with his fingertips and aimed. Aisha ducked behind the machungwa tree, waited a moment, then ran again. Another shot and she jumped into the lavender bushes, then behind the jacaranda, running and hiding, running and hiding, past anything and everything in her way, straight toward the bush trail.
The baby’s wing snapped out of the kanga like the sail of a dhow, and as Aisha ran, the baby bobbed up and down, faster and faster, until both of them whirred like a motor and lifted off the ground. As they rose, the wind generated a new wing from the scar of the old and Baby Khaki flapped her wings with a new fervour as she clawed her way out of the kanga. Mr. Khaki saw them rise above the forest and promptly fired again and again until he exhausted all his bullets. He then watched, with great satisfaction, as Aisha fell, arms spread, gently striking the tops of several cedar trees before disappearing into the dense bush below. Baby Khaki circled the trees, then dove like a duck into water. She resurfaced several times before they emerged together, Aisha folded in two, Baby Khaki mounted on Aisha’s back, pulling her up toward the sky.
Bombshell Beauty
Presenting Amir Merchant, Future Son-in-Law
In order for Amir Merchant to take his fiancée, Zarina Jivraj, to the Grand Opening of the Pomegranate Ballroom, he had to ask her father’s permission. Mr. Jivraj was hesitant; he was worried not only because it might spoil his good name but also because he knew very well what boys were like, so he refused.
Mrs. Jivraj shot her husband a dirty look as she spooned more biryani into Amir’s plate. “Let them go now. It’s the big opening of Amir’s club. Plus all the youngsters are going everywhere these days.”
Zarina, who sat next to her younger sister, Najma, laced her fingers into a tight knot on her lap and looked at her father. Please say yes, Pappa! Zarina could hardly wait to be in the arms of her handsome new fiancé.
Up until now, there had been no place for the young people in Dar es Salaam to dance. The British Gymkhana was clearly off limits—not only for the Africans (obviously) but for them as well—except on the rare occasion that the District Commissioner sent invitations for his charitable and fundraising events to some of the well-to-do Asians. Amir’s father had received one such invitation but had ripped it up on the spot. “Bastards! As if we need them so badly.” He decided then and there that he would open a ballroom for the young people in his community. “Let them enjoy as well.” Plus, he had said, it would be an excellent source of additional revenue for his growing empire. As soon as the Merchants announced the opening of the ballroom, all the young people in Dar es Salaam started making plans: new dresses and suits were made and purchased, there were lineups outside Shivji Shoe Shop & Repair, hair appointments were booked, and many spent their evenings practising popular dance steps from recent American films with stars like Lana Turner, Ava Gardner, and Rita Hayworth.
People often told Zarina that she looked just like Rita—as if she were a bombshell who’d stepped out of the screen at the Empire Theatre and onto the streets of Dar es Salaam. Even when she was a little girl, uncles, aunties, and cousins would follow her around, practically fighting to play with her or have her sit on their laps. It was as if she were a roll of Life Savers and they all wanted a piece. “Save her for my boy,” aunties would say to her mother, who would beam with pride. “No, no. My boy would be much better,” another auntie would pipe in. “Aye, if only I was younger,” an uncle would counter. “What a bombshell beauty you are!” Zarina would just smile at their comments, but for some reason, she felt rotten, as if she were a fruit that was spoiled on the inside.
Mr. Jivraj tapped his hand on his plate, but several grains of rice stubbornly stuck to his fingers. “Who’s saying no, Kulsum? If everyone else allows their children to jump in front of a train, does that mean we do the same? Besides,” he clucked his tongue, “all these youngsters going everywhere these days are married youngsters, not engaged youngsters like our Zarina and Amir.” He rolled his fingers around the outside of his plate, scooped the remaining rice into his hand, and muttered, “Why not speak when you know what you are speaking about?”
Mrs. Jivraj was not at all put off. Her topmost concern was appeasing her future son-in-law and ensuring that nothing, absolutely nothing, went wrong before the wedding. After all, this was no ordinary boy. This was Amir Merchant, one and only son of Hasanali S. Merchant, number one businessman in the whole of Tanganyika! Mrs. Jivraj did a mental inventory of all the things the Merchants owned: a biscuit factory upcountry, a coffee farm in Arusha, and here in Dar es Salaam, a toy shop, a spices shop, a pawnbroker’s, a liquor store, a mattress shop, and now this ballroom. My God, did her husband have nails in his head? Did he not understand tha
t they had to do their utmost to keep this boy happy? Of course their Zarina could get any boy she wanted with her extra good looks, but why had they refused all those proposals, made her wait until this late age of twenty to marry? Think, husband-sala, think for once in your life!
“Auntie, the food is excellent.” Amir smiled at Mrs. Jivraj, then popped an onion slice into his mouth.
“Oh, I’m so happy you’re enjoying.” See what a good boy he is? Mrs. Jivraj shifted the skirt of her A-shaped dress, which was patterned with tiny red roses, and glanced at her younger daughter, Najma, stooped over her food, eating. Not like that one is going to be able to bring home a gem like Amir. This boy will help us change our lives. Thank God for Zarina! Not even married yet and Mr. Merchant had already made a generous offer to help Mr. Jivraj expand their kanga shop. After all these years, her good-for-nothing husband still had only one shop, while so many others were expanding and had money coming out of their khand. Mrs. Jivraj sat down and pulled her chair up to the table, her large breasts pressing against the edge. Her quick mind developed another option. “But if we send Najma along, it should be fine, nuh? Let her have a nice time too.”
Najma, who had kept her eyes averted all evening, looked up from her plate, hoping desperately that her father would say yes. She made sure that she did not look at her future brother-in-law. Oh! He was so very good-looking with his fair skin and his big, gul-gul eyes. Why did Zarina always get everything she wanted? Ever since she was a little girl, Najma knew that she wasn’t very pretty. Aunties and uncles would pat her on her head and then clamour to Zarina, eager to be the first to lift her onto their laps, pinch her cheeks, run their hands down her long, dark hair, and tell her how pretty she was. “So pretty, I just want to eat you up,” people would say, nuzzling their mouths to her neck and shaking their heads vigorously. Once, when Shokat Uncle returned from a business trip to London with gifts for everyone, she saw him slip Zarina an extra bar of Cadbury’s Dairy Milk. That night, Najma found half the chocolate bar under her pillow and although she wanted so much to eat it, she returned it to Zarina right away with a note: “I am not charity.” It all seemed so unfair. She had always felt beautiful inside with the many wondrous thoughts running inside her, but her appearance seemed to betray her. If only, Najma thought, she could turn herself inside out, then people would flock to her the way they flocked to Zarina. But Najma refused to feel sorry for herself. One day I will find my prince, a man who will see me for who I am. Then everything will be different.
Mr. Jivraj held a green chili to his mouth, about to snap the tip. Instead, he put it down on his plate and looked at his wife. She always insisted on dragging matters out, but in this case, she had proposed a reasonable solution, hadn’t she? So why not? What harm could come from one evening? “Both sisters will accompany you, Amir.”
Amir hurried to swallow the food he was chewing; it slipped down his throat like a mouse down a snake. “Very good, Uncle.”
Najma could barely contain herself. She was going to spend an evening at the Pomegranate Ballroom! She didn’t mean to, but blurted out, “I can’t wait to dance.”
Mr. Jivraj placed both elbows on the table, leaned in, and looked sternly at her. “Arrey, Najma,” he coughed as he glanced at his wife, “who said anything about dancing?”
Mrs. Jivraj wagged her finger at Najma. “Exactly, junglee-salee. You heard Pappa. Best to sit and watch. Go-kama, but only to keep your sister company. Bas. Finished talking.” Why was this girl such a headache? Mrs. Jivraj was sick and tired of always having to worry about Najma. Bad enough the girl wasn’t all that attractive—that sort of thing can be corrected somewhat. Hadn’t she spent countless hours scrubbing Najma’s dark skin with Vim and applying petroleum jelly nightly on her unruly hair? And no doubt, she had definitely improved some. Not bad at all really, but still, she was nothing at all like her sister. Loi-peeyathi, she drinks my blood, she would say to the aunties over a cup of tea and loud enough so that Najma could hear. But more than that, Najma was difficult to control from the very beginning. Even when she was only this high, she would run around with her dress over her head during prayers at jamatkhana. What to do with a girl like that? Her father wouldn’t let me touch her—otherwise I would have beaten some sense into her. But one time, weh. I had no choice. Found her in the bathroom with a doll between her legs! Pisha Mowla. What kind of animal had I given birth to? Is this the way for a girl to behave? Exactly! So what else to do but put my slippers to good use? But I had no chance. The shameless girl ran straight out of the flat and into the courtyard. Naked! What would the neighbours say? I tried my level best to catch her; ran after her like a servant chasing a chicken. But I tell you, it was impossible. Who knew a hippo could run so fast, hanh? I had no choice; I woke her father from his afternoon nap. Told him everything. But what did the laloo do? He caught her all right, but instead of doing what any man would do, he just stood there, trembling like a leaf. Bastard. “How else will she learn her lesson?” I yelled. Finally, he gave her a solid slap across the face and she let out a big fat scream. “Yes! That’s it,” I told him. “That will teach her all right.” But the idiot pulled away, tears in his eyes. Tears, can you believe? The girl never cried once and here was this grown man crying like a little baby. Then, just like that, he disappeared into his office. From then on, I knew for certain that I would have to handle all the affairs in the household. I grabbed the girl and gave her a few good ones, but soon enough, she slipped out of my grip and ran away. Believe you me, if her father had straightened her out then, we wouldn’t have the problems we have today.
Zarina tucked the tips of her fingers under her thighs. Please, don’t spoil everything, Najma. Zarina hoped that her little sister would not storm off to her room or create some sort of kafuffle, as she so often did, in order to protest their parents’ restrictions. My God, what in the world would Amir think—her family were hooligans? Why can’t Najma just behave herself? Doesn’t she realize that tonight is of utmost importance? Why can’t she think of anybody else but herself? When they were little, things were so different. Najma would follow Zarina around like a shadow and often insist that they sleep together. On those nights, they would stay up, whispering and giggling with hands over their mouths, pretending to be film stars in movies like The Lady from Shanghai, in which Najma played Orson Welles, a rogue hero who saves Rita Hayworth, played by Zarina, from thieves in Central Park. But then, as if overnight, Najma refused to have anything to do with Zarina—whether it was her offers to apply nail polish, style her hair, or just talk (like all sisters did) about delicious topics such as the boys they would most like to marry. Instead, Najma would shut Zarina out of their bedroom by propping a chair under the knob. “What have I done wrong?” Zarina once asked their mother. “Why is she so mean to me?” “Don’t worry, bheta,” Mrs. Jivraj said before she forced open the door. “Your sister, she’s the jealous type, you see. What can you do if God has bestowed you with such beauty, hanh?”
Zarina leaned over to Najma, keen to soften her up for Amir’s sake. “Come on, Najma, we’ll dress up like princesses. It’ll be so much fun. You can wear anything of mine that you want.”
Najma looked at Zarina and, to Zarina’s surprise, her mouth widened into a smile. “Even your new dress?”
No! Not that dress. That’s the one she was planning to wear. Oh, that’s okay, Zarina told herself. She’d have another dress made before the Grand Opening. Besides, once I’m married, when will Najma ever have a chance to go anywhere? Zarina prayed that her sister would develop a more amiable personality so that she too would have a normal life one day: a good husband, a nice house, and the joys of motherhood. Poor Najma! It was her duty, Zarina felt, to rise above her little sister’s antics and set a good example for her. That was the only way Najma would learn. “Of course you can wear my dress.”
It was all set then. They were going to the Grand Opening of the Pomegranate Ballroom. Najma filled with a nervous excitement as she imagined
herself in Zarina’s long black Rita Hayworth dress that Amir had purchased for her in London. Yes. She’ll wear a long scarf and practise walking in heels and maybe, just maybe, she’ll look as beautiful as Zarina does when she wears it. No, she’ll look even more beautiful! She’ll look like a star and all the boys will line up to dance with her.
Amir didn’t say anything, but why the hell did he have to take Najma along? She would ruin the evening, following them everywhere like a dirty shadow. He wanted to have his beautiful fiancée on his arm without any encumbrances whatsoever. The whole bloody point of coming for this God-forsaken meal was to ensure that Zarina would be allowed to spend the evening with him, at his club, with his friends and colleagues. Good God, hadn’t his family made enough gestures of goodwill to these people? Even offering her father investment capital to expand that shoddy store of his? He had been waiting months to be alone with this girl—this girl that every single boy in Dar wanted but was now officially his.
Behind the Scenes of the Prince and the Showgirl
Amir left soon after dinner in order to attend to a business matter. Mr. Jivraj was in excellent spirits, knowing that Zarina was marrying such a good fellow, that he decided to take the family for ice cream. They piled into his gleaming white Peugeot and as they headed toward Ocean Drive, Mr. Jivraj turned on the radio. His favourite song from the film Mughal-e-Azam boomed from the speakers. He tapped his fingers on the dashboard and sang along, Ghunt ghunt kariiyu marna kyaa. Why die slowly in small choked breaths? Mrs. Jivraj, who had already laid her head back on the seat, immediately leaned forward and turned down the volume. The car burrowed through the winding road and when they reached Oyster Bay, Mr. Jivraj pulled into the gravel parking lot where rows of African vendors were lined up with oil lamps offering mogo doused with lemon and chili, sticks of spicy mishkaki, and vanilla ice cream from steel drums. Mr. Jivraj and Najma jumped out of the car. Mrs. Jivraj refused to come out. She said her heels would sink into the sand and she certainly wasn’t going barefoot. Zarina stayed back to keep her company.
