Translated from the Gibberish

by Anosh Irani

  “He gave you a used golf ball?”

  “No,” said Jalal. “I found this.”

  “Oh. Where?”

  “Near the university grounds. I had gone there to drop someone off, and saw it on the road.” He held the ball in his hands, and then weighed it by moving his palm up and down. “It’s so bruised,” he said. “Made me think.”

  “About what?”

  “Golf,” he said. “What else?”

  Both of them burst out laughing. Jalal’s lung patch wasn’t receding, but at least there were signs of a friendship between them. How Majid wished he had this easy bond with his own brother. When they were small kids, the distance between them hadn’t been vast—it could be covered in a hop, step, and a jump. But then, within a span of months, that distance had become a sea—Arabian, full of gold.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Jalal.

  “Nothing.”

  “One minute you laugh, the next minute your face turns sad.”

  “It’s just that…Never mind, who am I to burden you with my woes?”

  “There is no burden amongst friends.”

  Majid looked at Jalal. Perhaps, he thought, if I tell him about Isa, he will tell me about his own troubles. And so he began speaking, starting with Madanpura’s butcher shops, where knives were stored for the cutting and dispensing of human meat, to the joys of gully cricket, where you drew three chalk lines on a wall and whacked a rubber ball around, to the confusion that had swelled in a young Majid when he was instructed to cheer for Pakistan—not India—during a cricket match, to the solid goodness within the community—the elders, the respect they had for others, their attempts at instilling in boys such as Isa and Majid a tolerance for all religions. Madanpura was a whirlwind of opposites, contradictions, good and not-so good battling it out, calls for prayer being met with calls for violence—but during the time when he was growing up, the lure of gold smuggling and, later on, extortion was just too powerful for some to resist. All of this, Jalal listened to carefully. Nodding here and there, uttering a few clucks with his tongue to show disapproval or commiseration.

  When Majid spoke about Fatima and Ayesha, Jalal was especially attentive. Something about family was central to this man, thought Majid. Maybe a window into someone else’s family was helping him solve a puzzle within his own. Jalal asked about Fatima’s and Ayesha’s daily lives, then said with gentle admiration, “Your wife and mine are so alike.” Strong, determined, soft, independent. Those were the words Majid would have used to describe Fatima, but he didn’t need to. Jalal understood. How synchronistic, Jalal said, that Ayesha and his daughter Sara were almost the same age.

  “It’s so good that Fatima works,” Jalal added. “That’s good.”

  “She has to,” said Majid. “The thing is, Isa cannot do much, so she has no choice.”

  “And is the leather shop far from your home?”

  “A five-minute walk.”

  “And Ayesha—where is her school?”

  “It’s a place called Clare Road…very close to where we live.”

  “Mumbai sounds like such a maze,” said Jalal. “I’ve been only once—that, too, just days before the riots began. After that, I went to Bahrain for work. And now I’m here.”

  He said “here” as though he wasn’t quite sure where he was, or how he’d arrived. Here. It was such a confusing word, in the most magical way. For Majid, at least. Who would have thought, when he’d been a child sitting on that wooden chair of his, waiting for the school bell to ring, that he would one day touch snow, or see someone smile at him for no reason, or watch, stupefied, as a bus lowered itself with such humility, with a gentle exhale and hiss, to accommodate a person in a wheelchair. Why wasn’t Jalal feeling the same awe? He had told Majid that he was originally from Chiplun, the halfway point between Bombay and Goa—a place of coconut trees, beaches, red earth, monkeys running around. During the rains, when Madanpura’s streets were flooded and the gutters overflowed, spewing forth mulch and plastic bags, in Chiplun you could smell the heavens. The heavens left their mark on the earth for you, said Jalal.

  “This leather store,” he asked. “Is it called Almirah as well?”

  “No, no,” said Majid. “It’s called Isa’s Leather Goods. No deeper meaning there, as you can imagine.”

  Jalal nodded silently. Silences were like countries, thought Majid, they covered so much ground. This silence was going to be fruitful. He felt certain Jalal was going to share something with him. The mention of the rains, it seemed, was causing something to well up inside Jalal. He was overcome, the way the tide suddenly comes in, rushes over a stony dam, and caresses the coconut trees on the shore, a soft reminder of the power of nature. But then the tide gathers momentum, moves further in, starts invading the land of humans, covering the tin roofs of homes, toppling cycles and carts, all while maintaining its grace and its beauty, reminding us of how little effort it requires to touch us. Humans have the audacity to think of the tide as an invasion, when it is a simple reclamation. Now these waves of sadness were reclaiming Jalal, and he was trying to find cover. He was shifting in his chair, staring at his palms, the three thick lines on his forehead folding into each other, trying to change the shape of his face, which might prevent the waves from recognizing him. There was a beauty to it, thought Majid, the endless struggle of all men in this one man.

  But then Jalal did something wrong.

  He smiled. To cover up his pain, he smiled. And this made Majid feel silly. No, silly wasn’t the word. Stupid. Like a dolt. Yes, a dolt. Fatima was right. Or, only half-right. Majid was not a saint; saints were wise, not idiotic. Majid had poured his heart out to Jalal, and now, instead of using the opportunity to do the same, Jalal was resorting to a cheap human trick.

  Majid abruptly got up and bid Jalal good night. “I need to close up.”

  “Yes, I should get going too,” said Jalal.

  Majid watched as his friend opened the door to his taxi. What was her stupid name? Abida, was it? No, Aidah. Who gives a taxi a name? A dolt bigger than Majid. There was no comparison between naming sweets and naming a taxi. That comparison in itself showed a lack of common sense. How could Majid not name his sweets? What would he tell his customers? But taxis—of course, they’re all taxis. One and the same. One no different from the other. A sweet is a thing; a taxi is a function. Aidah my foot.

  And he had left that golf ball on the table.

  Golf. An elitist game if ever there was one. While the world struggled with basic food and housing, ten hungry souls living under one tin roof, these golfers wore white belts and caps and fancy shoes, and strutted around while slaves carried their bags. They made a show of putting balls into small holes, walking over a large expanse of green to the sound of ludicrous claps from spectators, joyless approvals of what was not a sport. It wasn’t a sport, it was a game, a mind game that the rich played against the poor. Mr. Taylor, Majid’s business partner, played golf. Perhaps Majid should have a word with him, make him aware of the affront it offered.

  Calm down, thought Majid. What the hell is wrong with you?

  These were not his thoughts. These were Isa’s thoughts. They had seeped into his brain over the phone, through wires that had somehow found their way into his human circuitry. He rushed outside and knocked on Jalal’s taxi window.

  “My friend?” asked Jalal.

  “Your ball,” said Majid. He did not grip the ball, just held his palm flat out, so that the ball looked like an abomination, an evil egg.

  “Oh,” said Jalal. “I could have picked it up next time.”

  “I don’t like things in my shop that don’t belong to me.”

  He could hear his curtness, and he was ashamed of it. Where had this meanness been hiding? Had Mr. Binny been right all along? Was Majid a Goody Two-Shoes?

  “I can see that I have offended you,” said Jalal.

  “No, no,” said Majid. “It’s been a rough day.”

  “All this talk of home, perhaps?”<
br />
  “Maybe. I miss my wife and daughter. It’s been a year…”

  “I miss my daughter, too,” said Jalal.

  “Yes, but you’ll be home in twenty minutes.”

  “No,” said Jalal. “I will be home, but I won’t get to see my daughter.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Jalal tapped the passenger seat.

  “What?” asked Majid.

  “Come. Sit.”

  “I can’t leave the shop.”

  “We’re not going anywhere. Just sit. You can keep an eye on the shop from here.”

  Majid walked round the taxi, opened the door, and sat in the passenger seat. There was a distinct smell in the cab, the smell of something being over-cleaned. Prayer beads hung from the rear-view mirror, and the credit card machine had seen better days. Apart from that, there was nothing special about the car; it was just another “yellow.”

  Without saying a word, Jalal reached out and flipped the sun visor. Pasted onto the back of the small mirror was a photograph. A little girl, about five years old, squinting in the sun. There was a pout on her lips, as though she was protesting something. That was all. Jalal didn’t need to say more. The sun visor, which was meant to shield him from the sun, had blinded him with pain.

  “This is the daughter I can never return to,” said Jalal.

  Majid stayed silent. He felt shame for judging Jalal, for his ego in thinking that he could help him deal with whatever afflicted him. He crushed the golf ball with all his might, choking it, releasing upon it a quiet fury, the fury of the good and the kind and the righteous mixed with the fury of the religious, the proud, the Goody Two-Shoes. Jalal was so silent, the entire taxi was filled with it; it was a space between two large mountains where stillness reigned supreme. Out of respect, Majid felt he should ask something, say something. But he did not know what. “I’m sorry” was common, more useless than anything, “How did she die?” was too soon, too insensitive. “At least you have another daughter” was the coldness of the mathematician. So he asked the only question that seemed honourable.

  “What was her name?” he asked.

  “Aidah,” replied Jalal.

  How futile the names of Majid’s sweets now seemed. How irrelevant, how superficial. His sweets—barfis, malpuas, gulab jamuns—were eaten, then expelled. But this name, Aidah, stayed with Jalal forever. He carried it with him wherever he went, and he was carried by it, in it, the way a womb carries a child, because that’s what Jalal had been reduced to, an infant cursed with unadulterated pain for the rest of its life.

  THAT NIGHT MAJID HAD THE MOST horrible yearning to go back to India, to snuggle up next to his wife and child, and beg forgiveness for leaving them. Even though he had every intention of bringing them to Canada, he was still sorry. He prevented himself from calling Fatima; hearing her voice would only make the feeling worse. But as the night progressed, he felt shivers, the kind he’d felt when Isa first showed him his collection of blades and choppers, and when his grandfather had breathed his last.

  He sat up in bed and looked outside. There was nothing to see. Just the shapes of some trees. Even the street lights were weak. He dialled his home number. It rang and rang, but no one answered. He tried going back to sleep. It was of no use. He called again. This time someone did pick up. It was Isa.

  Majid asked for Fatima.

  “What’s wrong with talking to your brother?”

  “I just need to speak with Fatima about something.”

  “About your infidelity?” asked Isa. “You found some pussycat there?”

  “It’s okay,” said Majid. “I’ll call later.”

  “Hold on. I did what you asked me to.”

  “Did what?”

  “I’ve got Binny’s number for you.”

  “What?”

  “That prick is still giving English tuition. Can you imagine? The old bastard is still ordering kids around. And he has a mobile!”

  But Majid didn’t want his number. What would he do with it? He had just wanted to know if Mr. Binny was alive, and even that wasn’t a matter of pressing importance.

  “I don’t want it,” he said.

  “Then why’d you ask? Now take it down. Call him and do some dirty talk. That’s what I did.”

  Isa laughed—a distinct cackle that could corrode the healthiest and most self-assured of spirits. Majid knew Isa was fully capable of calling Mr. Binny and talking garbage. He decided to take the number down. Isa would hound him until he did.

  “Give my love to him,” said Isa. “And tell him I’ve converted to Christianity.”

  Majid did not bother asking Isa where Fatima was. How he wished she still had a mobile phone. He had bought her three and she had lost all of them. Left one in a taxi, the other at Ayesha’s school, and she was still trying to figure out how the third had vanished from her life. That final one had cracked the first day she had it, the screen jagged and distorted, and Fatima had said it was bad luck, a mirror cracking. So that had been it for mobile phones. Majid had purchased an iPhone for himself a month after he came to Vancouver, but he’d found himself surfing porn within a day or two, and was so disgusted with the images he saw, and the strange raw power they had over him, that he’d discontinued his mobile phone service. Porn was for Isa, not for him. Porn was Isa’s way of coping, of projecting his hatred onto the world. He did not blame Isa, though. In that one day of viewing porn—Majid’s first time ever—the idea of coveting and relishing women he did not know had not seemed unusual. Majid had wanted to be part of the violent joy. And it terrified him, it was unholy.

  The night was turning, things were flashing through his mind, but he couldn’t counter them in any way. Thoughts from ages ago, moments long forgotten, such as the one time he had peed in his pants in school and was certain Mr. Binny would sniff him out, or the last time his grandfather had cleaned his glasses, the morning before he died, and how it seemed as if Isa had felt nothing, had showed no emotion upon his demise, whereas Majid had cried and cried, and shuddered at the thought of living his whole life with this brother, and soon that shuddering thought became a shuddering reality because both his parents had died within months of each other. Why were these thoughts coming to him now, in the dark, in the third-most-livable city in the world? Why were the trees outside so still?

  Perhaps he needed some time off.

  He would speak with Mr. Taylor in the morning and ask him if he could go to Whistler for the weekend. The mountains would do him some good. Mountains were the realms of angels, his grandfather had told him. The younger ones were taught to fly by leaping off peaks, so that they might realize their wings were apparitions and it was faith that was keeping them afloat. Majid might see such angels; they might nourish him. Faith. This—what he was going through, his failure to bring his wife and daughter to Canada, his temptation with porn, his inability to be a good friend to Jalal—it was all a test of faith. He drank some cold water and went to bed. The sun was showing through the curtains, soft light that allowed you to sleep, encouraged you to start again. His heart found some ease, and he sank into a waking dream where Fatima and Ayesha were on board a flight, looking down at the clouds, and he was just below, waiting for them on the ground, his arms wide open.

  * * *

  —

  FOR THE NEXT TWO WEEKS, there was no sign of Jalal. Majid worked with increased fervour. His need for the mountains had dissipated; he had thrown himself into making sweets. Milk and sugar were his life, and a sweet one it was. He discovered more organic colours to pour into his sweets, and when he mentioned this to his customers, they lit up as though he had revealed to them a secret passage from the Quran, or whatever teaching they believed in.

  Majid was disappointed with how he had behaved upon learning of Jalal’s plight, how he had crumbled and gone dark. Jalal had helped him realize he was not as strong and wise as he needed to be. For Fatima’s sake, for Ayesha’s sake. A true disciple of Allah was both courageous and compassionate, dev
out in his desire to change for the better.

  So when Jalal finally showed up, Majid was ready.

  Jalal entered the shop and sat in a corner, as he usually did. Once Majid was done closing up, he made them both some tea and they sat face to face, like old friends, people who knew each other from a long time ago. They stayed in silence for a bit, and that was good. Majid was the one who broke it.

  “I’m really sorry about your daughter,” he said.

  Jalal waved his hand, in a gesture that was casual and friendly. He was trying to start over, to be light. How brave of him.

  “That’s life…” said Jalal. “That’s life…” He was slow, deliberate. He stared at his teacup.

  Again, Majid could sense that Jalal was going somewhere in his mind, or wanted to. And this time, Majid was prepared. Darkness, sadness—these were the weapons of evil, and those who were good had to shed their inhibitions and combat it. The last time, Majid had absorbed it all, been Jalal’s sponge. That was a mistake. He needed to be a wall, a kind and caring wall upon which Jalal could lean.

  “I’m about to tell you something,” said Jalal. “Something that will be hard to hear. But I implore you, hear me out with a calm mind.”

  Calmness. The ability to stay rooted in goodness, to have faith, no matter what.

  “Yes,” Majid replied.

  “Brother,” said Jalal. “I ask for your forgiveness in advance.”

  “For what?” asked Majid. “You have just called me your brother. There is no question of forgiveness between brothers.”

  Majid tried not to think of Isa when he said this. But Isa was not only a different kettle of fish, he was a fish from a different sea altogether. Isa’s pain was self-inflicted; this man’s pain was real, the pain of the good.

  “Speak, brother,” said Majid. “I’m listening, and the night is ours.”

  He had no idea why he’d said that, but it felt right. It was large, magnanimous, and he was feeling that way, as huge as the night, ready to take it all in, the shape of trees, the rain, the birds gliding across the skies.