Baby Khaki's Wings

by Anar Ali

  Zarina quickly tapped Najma’s finger down. “Don’t be so rude, Najma.”

  “Oh, this fellow?” Amir asked. “This is Topsie Kara, number one dancer in the whole of Dar es Salaam. No, no, the whole of Tanganyika. I say maybe even all of Africa. What do you say, Topsie?” Amir laughed as he winked at his friend. Once, when they were still neighbours, Amir and Topsie slipped onto the grounds of the British Gymkhana Club to watch the Europeans dancing—their shadows illuminated in the soft yellow glow of the window screens. “Bastards!” Amir shook his head. “Just worried that their women will be overwhelmed with our excellent physiques and our mind-boggling abilities on the dance floor. Not to mention our capacity off the dance floor, bana.” “Exactly!” Topsie echoed as they both doubled over in laughter. “Correction, correction,” Amir said, standing up straight and jesting his thumbs to his chest. “I meant my mind-boggling abilities.” He took two steps back, swayed his hips and shoulders, and pretended to dance the rumba. “Ur-ruh-ruh!” Topsie countered, his palms turned to the sky. “You call that dancing, bana? Please stop it before I vomit. It’s a good thing no one can see us here,” Topsie lightly cuffed Amir’s chin, “because you, sir, are an embarrassment to all good men. If you want to dance, Merchant, let me show you a thing or two.” Topsie removed his hat, bowed, and then began a series of demonstrations using the palm tree as his partner—the fox trot, samba, Viennese waltz. Amir watched impatiently, his hands on his hips, until he couldn’t bear it anymore. If there was one thing he couldn’t stand, it was a show-off! “Stop it now,” Amir ordered, and grabbed Topsie’s arm. “I’ve seen more than enough, thank you very much.” But Topsie pulled away and playfully ducked behind a tree, taunting Amir to catch him. “Stop acting so childish,” Amir said, lunging forward. He caught the tail of Topsie’s shirt and yanked him forward before jumping onto his back and coiling his legs around Topsie like a snake. “Such a featherweight you are,” Topsie teased, and continued dancing. Frustrated, Amir pushed himself off and then whipped Topsie around to him, shaking him by his shoulders. “Are you deaf or what? I said stop dancing!” Amir’s words bellowed out in the same firm tone his father used when he reprimanded Amir for any errors in bookkeeping. “Who the hell do you think you are? The Fred Astaire of Dar? Let me tell you a thing or two, my friend. You might be better in all this dancing-shmancing business, but in things that really count, we all know that I am king.” Soon after, the Merchants bought the villa in Upanga.

  Amir slipped his arms around Topsie and Najma. “Go on now. Show the girl your fancy steps, why don’t you?” He pursed his lips and pushed the couple forward. “You are, after all, the Fred Astaire of Dar, aren’t you?” Let’s see how good he is with a baboon for a partner.

  Topsie felt his face stiffen; he shot Amir a dirty look. Of all the girls in Dar, why her? Najma stepped toward Topsie, still smiling broadly.

  “I don’t know if this is such a good idea,” Zarina said, swinging her gold-sequined purse behind her. “Pappa won’t like it one bit if he finds out Najma’s been dancing.” What was wrong with Najma? Didn’t she know that this Topsie fellow was a complete idiot?

  “Why does Pappa have to find anything out?” Najma asked as she slipped her hand into the crook of Topsie’s arm.

  “Exactly.” Amir pressed his fingers into Topsie’s shoulder and pushed him forward. “Go on now. No need to feel shy, Topsie. Let’s see the master at work.” Amir took Zarina’s hand in his and pulled her to the railing overlooking the dance floor. He couldn’t wait to watch the spectacle.

  “Don’t listen to Amir, he’s a first-class exaggerator,” Topsie said to Najma. “I’m really not that good.”

  “Oh, I’m not that good either,” Najma said.

  “Perfect, we’re made for each other, then.” Topsie removed his hat and bowed. “After you, madam.”

  Najma eyes brightened. The words made for each other played over and over in her mind and she wanted to savour them as she would a sweetmeat.

  Najma’s head came to Topsie’s neck, and she could smell the faint scent of his cologne and the familiar smell of cigarette smoke. Suddenly, she became nervous, realizing that she’d never been this close to a man’s body. She was no longer sure if she would be able to dance in her heels. But then Topsie pressed his hand on the concavity of her back, and Najma felt free of the constraints of gravity and floated effortlessly in his arms.

  It had always been difficult to dance with other girls, so Topsie was genuinely surprised at how easily he moved with Najma—as if they were cut from the same cloth. He squeezed her hand in his and when he felt the pulse of her fingertips on his skin, he felt compelled to pull her closer. Shocked by his action, he quickly retreated. Najma smiled and brought him back to her. Topsie spread his palm on the small of her back and whispered, “And you said you couldn’t dance? You’re better than Ginger Rogers and Madhubala put together.”

  Najma leaned back. “Ginger Rogers? Don’t be mad. You mean Rita, don’t you? Rita Hayworth.”

  Topsie winked, pulling her back to him. He let his lips graze the top of her ear. “Of course, my mistake. The only difference is that you’re more beautiful.”

  A frisson of pleasure ran through Najma’s body, making her open like the plush velvet curtains at the Empire Theatre. For the first time, Najma felt as if there was no difference between the outside and the inside of her—she felt beautiful and she was beautiful. She had never experienced such euphoria before, and knew instantly what it all meant. Her hero-prince had finally arrived.

  To Amir’s surprise, Topsie and Najma danced together as if they belonged to air, gliding together with such ease that they looked as if they were one. But what shocked Amir was Najma. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. There was something about the way she moved her body, the way her hips swayed freely under her silk dress. Strangely, he wanted to take her in his arms and make her his. This image evoked such an intense pleasure in Amir that for a brief moment he imagined lying on her, his body swallowed by hers. But only seconds later, he was repulsed by the thought. What the hell is wrong with me? Good God, have I had that much to drink that I can’t see who this girl really is? A whore, a filthy whore. He glanced at Zarina, who was still at his side. Now, there’s a woman. A real beauty. He quickly brushed off his lapel and buttoned his jacket, pulling it down a little before he took Zarina’s hand in his. “Come, darling, let me introduce you to my friends.”

  It was getting late—when would they ever dance? Zarina wondered. She wanted to say something, but instead she nodded and followed Amir as he led her through the crowd. Many people stopped them. They were eager to congratulate Amir on the opening of the Ballroom (wa-wa!) and on his recent engagement to Zarina (wa-wa!). A match made in heaven, one man said. Zarina smiled, making sure she laughed at all the men’s jokes and blushed at their compliments. She held on to Amir, tightening her grip around his arm when they were introduced to the men’s fiancées or wives. They continued until they reached the back, where they stopped at the circular mahogany bar. Amir leaned over the counter and ordered a whisky, neat, for himself and a Fanta for Zarina. The men sitting at the bar swivelled their stools and openly surveyed Zarina, their eyes shifting up and down her body. One of the men pulled Amir in and whispered, “What a bombshell, bana.” Amir gave him a thumbs-up and then ordered a round of Johnnie Walker for all the men, who responded with loud applause.

  As Amir handed Zarina her drink, he told her that he wanted to talk to the men about business. One man chuckled. “Wait for me at the table,” Amir instructed.

  “All right, darling. Nice to meet all of you,” Zarina said, and turned to leave.

  As Zarina walked away, all the men’s heads turned, following her retreat like the needle of a compass.

  Zarina returned to their table where she sat, staring blankly into the crowded dance floor—as if she were a pin-up girl tacked to the chair. She couldn’t believe it was almost the end of the night and they still hadn’t danced. Why wouldn’t
Amir dance with her? She quickly retrieved a pocket mirror from her purse, checked her hair, and then reapplied her ruby red lipstick. Oh God, had she done something wrong, something to put him off? This question spun in her like a reel of film on a movie projector, until her eyes caught Najma. Suddenly, Zarina was overwhelmed with worry: Look at the way she’s dancing with Topsie. Did Najma want to jeopardize their family’s reputation—dancing with her body pasted to such a low-class fool—especially with the wedding only weeks away? Zarina put down her Fanta with such strength that the orange liquid fizzed to the top of the bottle. She weaved through the crowd, pushing several couples out of her way. They turned in anger but softened as soon as they saw it was Zarina.

  Zarina pulled her sister to the side. “Come on, we’re leaving,” she whispered sharply.

  “Oh, Zarina, can’t we stay just little longer? Please.”

  “Stop acting like a rakhroo!” Zarina grabbed Najma’s elbow. “Everyone is looking at you.” She kept a firm grip on Najma’s arm and rushed her off the dance floor. “This is for your own good, Najma. You better stay away from that hoodlum.”

  “But we weren’t doing anything.”

  “You don’t understand how boys are.” Zarina squeezed Najma’s arm. “Besides, don’t you know who he is? His father was the biggest dacoit in all of Tanganyika. And his mother? Useless. Totally useless. Works at Amir’s toy shop. They’re paupers, Najma. Imagine a life with people like them.”

  Topsie trailed behind the sisters and when he reached them, tapped Zarina on her shoulder. “One sec, please.”

  Zarina turned around, shrinking back when she saw Topsie.

  “Please, I’m so very sorry,” Topsie said, removing his hat. “If I offended you in some way, please forgive me. My intentions are honourable.”

  Of course they are, Zarina thought. He probably wants to marry into our family now that he’s heard about my engagement to Amir.

  Najma released herself from her sister’s grip. “He didn’t do anything, Zarina.”

  “Didn’t do anything? Dancing together as if you’re a married couple? If Mummy and Pappa hear, they’ll kill you. Imagine what people would say! Come on, let’s go. Pappa gave us strict orders to be home by midnight. And you,” she said, scowling at Topsie. “Stay away from my sister, understand? And don’t you think for even one second that Amir won’t hear about this.” As Zarina led Najma away, Najma untied the scarf around her neck, turned back to Topsie, smiling, and let it fall to the ground.

  From Here to Eternity

  Soon after, Topsie confessed his love for Najma to Amir and asked him to deliver a note to her wrapped in her scarf.

  “Are you mad, Topsie? Don’t you have eyes? Of all the girls in Dar, why her?” He put his arm around Topsie. “I know she’s going to be my sister-in-law, bana, but come on, she’s pathetic, truly pathetic.” Topsie insisted, and Amir continued to resist, giving him all sorts of reasons why he shouldn’t. “Aye, imagine seeing her face every morning—in full daylight, bana.” Topsie didn’t give up and offered counter-arguments. “To me, she is the most beautiful woman in the world. I can’t stop thinking of her. I know this is love. This is love.”

  Amir just laughed and mocked him, frustrating Topsie further, until he had a realization. “Oh, I see. Zarina is making you spoil my plans. Got you under her thumb, hanh?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, bana.”

  “I don’t blame you—I’d do anything Najma asked me to do too. But I beg you, please take this one note to her. I just have to see her alone once, that’s all.”

  “Bloody hell!” Amir snatched the knotted scarf and shoved it in his pocket. “You’ll regret it, Topsie. I’m telling you. You can do so much better than that girl. Look at the girl I’ve got.”

  As Amir turned to leave, Topsie begged him not to say anything to Zarina. “Otherwise, she’ll spoil everything.”

  What a bloody idiot! Amir thought when he read the note. No wonder Topsie’s family never amounted to much. How could he possibly have fallen for Najma? But then he laughed to himself. Wait ’til Topsie gets her alone and sees the bhadali properly, then it will be completely different story. Amir delivered the note, wrapped in Najma’s scarf, at another family dinner.

  When Najma read the note, she imagined herself running toward Topsie in a tall field of grass, monsoon rains pouring down on them, her tight langa patterned with mirrors soaked, and “Ek Ladki Ko Dekha” from 1942 Love Story booming in the background.

  Rita, mera pyar,

  Please meet me tomorrow night outside the Ballroom after jamatkhana. I can’t bear another night of not seeing you! (A driver will be waiting outside your flat, back entrance.)

  Call me mad, but I love your funny, funny face.

  Forever yours,

  Fred

  Beauty and the Beasts

  Zarina dreamt that she was a movie star. Curtains rise at the Empire Theatre. The title across the screen reads BOMBSHELL BEAUTY STARRING ZARINA JIVRAJ. Men in the audience hoot and holler, even throw popcorn at the screen. The camera cuts to Zarina walking down a red carpet; men whistle and clap. But soon, the whistles become growls, and when Zarina turns to the men, she sees that they have heads of wolves. Run, her sleeping self tells Zarina in the dream. Run! The pack of men chases her and just as they lunge at her, their paws suspended in mid-air, Zarina bursts out of the movie and lands on the stage of the Empire Theatre, leaving a hole the shape of her body on the screen. She is covered with blood and debris. The audience boos. Mothers shield their children’s eyes. Some quickly lead their families away. Men pound their fists on their armrests. One man stands up, a rock the size of a cricket ball in his hand. The audience roars with applause and screams of excitement. Go, go, go! they chant and stamp their feet when the man winds his arm like a bowler at a cricket match.

  Zarina bolted up in her bed. Her eyes were filled with tears and her floral cotton nightie was soaked with perspiration. “What is wrong with me? Please, God, help me,” she said. But she knows he’s not listening. She thought about how terrifyingly lonely she was even with her parents in the room next door, her little sister in the bed beside hers. In this moment, Zarina wanted to crawl into bed with Najma, like she used to when they were younger, and feel the warmth of her sister’s body beside her. She slipped out of her bed and reached to wake Najma, but she was not there. First, Zarina checked the bathroom, then the entire flat. My God, where was she? Had some dacoit crawled into their room and abducted her sister? Zarina shook with horror and ran to her parents’ room. She was about to open their door when a thought occurred to her: She’s with that hoodlum! She searched Najma’s things and found the love letter tucked under her mattress. Oh my God, Najma. What have you done?

  Zarina rushed quietly to the front door, a flashlight in one hand and a shilling note in the other. She struck the necessary deal with the askari. Outside the ballroom, Zarina asked the askari to drop her off and then wait a few streets over. She checked the front door of the ballroom. Locked. She pressed her face to the window. Nothing. It was pitch dark. She was scared to continue, but knew she had to. Her sister was in grave danger. She turned on the flashlight and pointed it down the alley like a gun from a holster. The light caught a row of crates neatly stacked against the wall. She tentatively made her way toward the back of the building, and was about to turn the corner when she noticed a dim light in the window above. She stepped up on a crate and peered in.

  I Spy

  Amir parked his car across from the Ballroom and waited. He was not sure why, but he felt a perverse pleasure in spying on Najma—that whore. Eventually, he saw two figures, one holding a long flashlight, as they walked quickly down an alleyway toward the back of the ballroom. Amir stepped out of his car and surveyed the street. The streets were, thankfully, empty with the exception of a few beggars. “Spare some change?” a man spread on a tattered gunny sack asked. Amir reached into his pocket and tossed a coin at him. “Waweza kuangalia vitu gari, bana? Watch the car?�
�� The beggar asked for more if he was going to be a watchman. Amir was about to refuse, but he didn’t want to create a ruckus at his hour. He dug into his pocket and gave the old man a few more coins before he crossed the street to the building; a large sign on the top read, MERCHANT ENTERPRISES PRESENTS THE POMEGRANATE BALLROOM.

  Amir walked to the side of the building, where he noticed several fallen crates. Mbafu servants. Never do any job to satisfaction! As he picked up the crates and placed them neatly against the wall, he saw a cone of light flit like a firefly from window to window and then settle into a frame near the front. He quickly squatted and waited for a few seconds before crawling to the window on all fours. Then he inched up, placing his fingertips on the filthy window ledge, and peered in. Inside, Topsie and Najma danced to a silent orchestra. How the hell had he managed to get in? That bloody dacoit—must have learned some tricks from his thieving father. Amir could barely see them; the flashlight created only dim shadows on the wall behind them. It was like watching a silent film. How boring! A few minutes later, Amir became weary—he was wasting his time. But then he saw Najma’s silhouette bend to pick up the flashlight from the floor. Look at that! Round and thick like a pig! Amir shook his head in amusement. Is Topsie completely out of his mind? I suppose a pig in the dark is better than a pig in broad daylight. Amir laughed out loudly, fumbling on some crates. Topsie turned toward the window. Amir dropped down. A few seconds later, he lifted his head, his eyes just above the base of the window, and watched the cone of light move from window to window, this time from the middle of the ballroom to the back. Trying to keep your liaisons with that girl a secret, hanh, Topsieji? Who can blame him really? He’d be the laughingstock of Dar!