Iram loved the still and stealth of night. For her nightfall was her sanctuary, all those probing and prying eyes that watched her were dimmer. She hated the scrutiny. At times it seemed as if the unrelenting gaze of her grandfather, Dadaji, seemed to infiltrate the very air she breathed. Dadaji was the only one who was quiet at night; all of his sons were by contrast loud and boisterous. It was as if the effort of watching over her for the entire day had finally drained him and he relinquished this burden at night as eagerly as he assumed it first thing in the morning. An opinion voiced during the day would be met with harshness, and laughter would be silenced by an angry glare but when the uncles came back from the mosque after the night prayer, it was OK. She could laugh loudly and disagree strongly and no one would say anything. Not Dadaji or her uncles.
Her father returned late every night and when they heard the sound of his approaching motorbike, her two brothers would quickly get out their books. She wondered if it would have made much difference to their father. He always looked exhausted and exasperated and she knew why. It was the burden of being a man. All this manliness and strength stoked with displays of anger was submerged under the weight of that dreadful calculation: money coming in and money going out; money for necessity and money for vanity. Only Uncle Arshad was free from this burden. He had made it. Through enterprise and hard work he was now a wealthy man. The other brothers (including her father) hated this. All opinion now gravitated to him; his agreement was the rubber stamp of approval on family matters. His wife was the dignitary amongst the other sisters-in-law who acquiesced to queer fate and gave her the respect she so desperately craved in the days when she was just like them.
Her daughters, too, were luminaries in the family: Farzana, Fozia and Farrah were free from the drudgery of village life and above all they had never been harried by the attention of Dadaji. Together they laughed and shared with each other what they did and how they did it. They were a perfect circle. Everyone else orbited them but could never be a part of them, unless they were chosen. Thankfully, though, they had allowed Iram into their sanctum and through them she learned of a truth that she was certain she would have never known otherwise: that her uncles and Dadaji were troubled by her womanhood. Her security was a burden for them, not her physical security but the security that was always threatened by the gaze of young men and the careless whispers of people in the village. They did not know how best to protect her, how to control the slippery tongue of the outside world. They could glare darkly at her, maybe even shout and raise their fist at her, but beyond that they could do nothing. She was sure of it.
A sound came from the courtyard. A name. Musa. She turned away from Sirius and saw her family staring at her. The uncles looked away but Dadaji’s eyes remained on her. In the time allowed her by her culture, she tried to take a sip of what lay behind his gaze. She quickly turned away, frightened.
Musa…Musa…The cousin from England. She had met him for the first time when he came to Pakistan a year ago. It was hard to sort out her impression of him then. Every part of him seemed to demand attention. The angry eyes that looked through you, the fair skin which so pleased the women in the family. When he spoke he became excited, angry and then sad. Because he spoke without thinking, he was always in trouble.
Her mother and the aunties were silent. Uncle Tasin and Uncle Arshad were trying to speak quietly (which they could never do) but now and again Dadaji became agitated and raised his voice. They were talking about her marriage. To Musa. Iram’s mother looked at her with the appraising eyes of a woman, not the soft eyes of a mother. It was at that moment Iram felt the mantle of womanhood and the emptiness of a woman.
She looked up at the star Sirius again and saw for the first time that it really was far, far away.
4
“Listen you wanna destroy a guy then first you fuck him up emotionally and then you fuck him up physically. And then when he’s lying on the ground looking at you like you’re the goddamn bad guy, you know what you do? You don’t get all soft and mushy. You drag him to his kitchen and pin his woman to your chest and when you feel her dribbling on your shirt that is when you know that you have truly destroyed him.”
Musa sat on the other side of a desk listening to a phone conversation and feeling as though he were an astral entity who had wandered into the wrong place at the wrong time. The first day of his new life had started at a frenzied pace. As soon as he had emerged from the bathroom, he had quickly changed into his first ever non-Islamic clothes: blue jeans that looked as if they had spun too many times in the washing machine, a big grey T-shirt which read Boss across the front and his most prized piece of attire – the Adidas trainers Suleiman had got him.
His brother had whisked him away in his car. No breakfast, no morning TV, no nothing. In the car Suleiman did not seem terribly inclined to elaborate and since Musa was still in a bit of a daze (as he generally was most mornings) he had not ventured to ask any questions.
Suleiman made a sharp left into an industrial unit of some sort. He pointed at Unit 1 and then left Musa alone with the words,” This is where we work and that’s where Babarr is. Listen to him and don’t give him no shit ’cos Babarr don’t take no shit from no one,” floating in the air like a pregnant cloud.
As Musa walked in, Babarr gave no sign of noticing him, engrossed as he was in his phone conversation. The room was large and modern-looking. A fax machine stood on the turtle-green carpet and in the corner was a small table on which rested a computer. Curiously, a poster of Confucius effervescent with wisdom hung on the wall. Light from the only window gave Babarr’s heavy, bare desk a professional sheen.
Musa studied this magnificent physical specimen. Babarr was enormous but no adjective in the English language, and most certainly none in Punjabi, could accurately describe his gigantic torso. Larger than a Sumo wrestler and with pectoral muscles that gave his chest such incredible definition you knew without forensic analysis that the bulging veins of his forearms throbbed with steroids. His huge hands and hairy wrists were decked with more gold than a Dubai jewellery shop. Oddly, the only part of him that was not of macro proportions was his head, a small bald sphere with a forehead disfigured by a protruding vein that pulsed aggression into the air. He was still talking.
“Look bhaiji. You tell them motherfuckers that Babarr ain’t gonna kiss no man’s ass. They got boys and I got boys. So what? You see me pissing my pants? I don’t need no boys. Boys are for assholes. Hold on a second–” he turned to Musa for the first time and gave him a friendly wink. “Look time is money and I ain’t got no money to waste. You tell them bastards that they wanted an extension, Babarr did an extension. They wanted a conservatory and Babarr gave them a conservatory. They wanted double-glazing and Babarr did them double-glazing. I charged them fair they paid me fair. And now those wankers are complaining that I scratched their skirting boards! What the fuck!”
Babarr stopped abruptly and his fingers started a menacing paradiddle. Musa could hear the caller’s voice rising.
“That ain’t the point. The point is respect. They go around telling people Babarr did this, Babarr did that, and before long I ain’t got no respect. My market value goes down. People start talking and I don’t get no work. And why? ’Cos I’m too much of a fucking nice guy. That’s why.”
Babarr slammed the phone down and turned his small green and very alert eyes on Musa. Softly he said: “Assalaam alaikum.”
Enormously heartened, Musa replied: “Waalaikum assalaam.”
“You look like shit.”
“What?”
Babarr held up his hand – already wearied by the indignant invective of lesser human beings. “I’ve seen you around quite a few times. One time I think I even saw you talking to yourself when you were walking near your home. I saw you and I says the guy has problems. I ask Suleiman and he says we all have our issues and I say fuck you. There are only two issues your birth and your death. What do you say?” Babarr growled but his geniality was unmist
akable.
“Well I suppose so,” said Musa warily.
“You suppose so? You’ve been studying in a Madrasah for four years and all you can do is you suppose so?”
“Well it all depends on what context…”
“Don’t you dare use that fucking word in front of me! I hear that word every day.” Babarr cleared his throat and lifted his eyebrows in imitation of a type of person he truly despised. “In the context of this agreement I am not obliged to pay you this fucking amount. No Mr Khan we cannot grant you your rebate because the fucking context was different when we agreed it.”
Musa shook his head in sympathy and thought briefly about smiling but decided not to.
“I know why you’re here. But do you know why you’re here?” Babarr lifted a chubby digit and pointed it at Musa.
“To learn what it is to labour and work hard and stuff,” replied Musa lamely.
Babarr shook his head disapprovingly.
“No my friend, you are not here to labour. You are here to connect. You are here to learn responsibility by being honest. And there ain’t no trade more responsible and honest than a builder’s. There are lots of fuckers who always say I hired a builder and he never finished what he started and when he left everything was in a mess. But they’re lying fuckers, ’cos the truth is everyone wants to use builders. You finish one job they say do this and then they say do that. Then they say keep an eye on our kid while we go out socialising. And before long they start bringing their mates back to their house to show off their extension and then they say to you: ‘Be a good chappie and make us all a spot of tea.’ Fuck you and your spots, we’re here to do a building job, pure and simple.”
“Pure and simple” hung in the air.
“I understand,” said Musa nervously.
“Good, because this ain’t no business for philosophy and shit. Suleiman told me that you spend a lot of your time philosophising and that’s OK outside work. I philosophise too sometimes. You ever read the collected sayings of Confucius?” he nodded towards the poster.
Musa, surprised, shook his head which pleased Babarr.
“Confucius was no bastard. There is a saying of his, which is very important for you to understand. One time he says, ‘When you come to the last page of a book it is time to close it.’”
What else would you do? thought Musa avoiding his gaze but Babarr immediately caught on.
“I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking it’s a dumb fuck saying because what else would you do when you come to the last page of a book?” he smiled, tickled by Musa’s folly. “The point is you have to move on even if you don’t know what you’re moving from.”
Babarr settled back in his chair and was silent for a few moments, marvelling at this nugget of wisdom. “Get it?” he asked, spitting the question with the ferocity of a bullet.
“Absolutely,” said Musa.
“Good. Because with me there is only one rule. You listen to what I say and do what I tell you. You understand?”
“Yes,” replied Musa, wondering if Babarr even knew how to count.
“OK, let’s get started.”
Babarr stood up and Musa noted with surprise the quality of his attire. A large polo shirt with even larger tracksuit bottoms were certainly not uncommon for a builder but the long leather coat that fell to his feet and the heavy gold chains that seemed glued to his neck were more appropriate for a thug. Still, thought Musa, what did he know of the dress-sense of the working world?
Musa followed him outside. The day was getting hotter and the sky was flecked with tufts of cloud. A lone bird circled the air and flapped its wings uncertainly, unaware of the envious scrutiny from below.
Babarr’s van, darker than a Batmobile, gleamed. The alloys were painted with an image of a radial wheel of fire with flattened orange flames along the spokes. The tyres were huge and still had rubbery wisps at the edges. Most curiously, in large sloping letters that stretched across both sides of the van was an acronym:
B for Babarr
E for Extension
S for?
T for Tidiness
CALL BABARR NOW ON 07801 656663
“What does the S stand for?” asked Musa as he climbed into the front seat slightly taken aback by all the flashing gizmos on the dashboard.
“Whatever you like,” answered Babarr proudly. “It’s up to the customer to decide. If he gets it into his head that he wants his house to be like Buckingham Palace after a week of me working like a dog for him, then I say to him S is for simple. If the customer starts pissing me off then I say to him S is for shit. I don’t take it and I don’t give it. If I get another call from a customer who’s gonna pay me top dollar then S is for sorry, I tell my other customers gotta skip town.”
Babarr roared with laughter at the ingenuity of it all while Musa looked at the interior of the van. In one corner, stacked in an untidy heap were measuring sticks, tape measures, hammers and a shiny bag of cement. Two speakers hung without apparent support. For a moment he wondered why music wasn’t playing but smiled as he realised the answer: there was a belief that the religious didn’t approve of music and Babarr was afraid of generating the wrong impression in front of someone who was presumed to be one such. The charisma of the devout was hard to define – it was an aura that hovered around them – different to each and every beholder. Perhaps it was more to do with the person and how he believed what he was supposed to uphold.
“You’re philosophising again aren’t you,” stated Babarr, disgusted.
“Not quite,” replied Musa.
“That’s OK. It’ll take time to get rid of the old ways. Anyways Sajid will knock it out of you. If anyone can piss off a thinker he can.”
“You mean Sajid as in Suleiman’s mate as in the retard Sajid?” asked Musa horrified.
“Yep. Suleiman told me you two have a history.”
Musa leaned back, dismay creasing his face. Sajid was a misshapen miscreant who Musa had despised since before he could walk. Small and dark, Sajid possessed a protruding lower lip that constantly quivered. Since he had been the first child after four miscarriages, the very act of his breathing was enough to sustain his parents’ adoration.
Like the little Columbus that he was, he had managed to venture into unknown waters and had come up trumps, marrying his cousin Gulshan from Pakistan without question and without seeing her, thus cementing his position as a demigod among sons. Subsequently he strutted around town, giving lengthy lectures to any poor soul who stopped for a moment to listen.
“What does he know about building?” asked Musa incredulously.
“He don’t know shit about shit but boy can that fucker work! You should see him mixing cement. He’s like an ape on ecstasy!”
Musa sighed and turned his attention to the considerably brighter world outside. They were in a wealthy area now. The houses were large and detached, their front gardens vast and leafy, and the roads were filled with small white stones. Two or three cars were parked on each driveway – mobile monuments to money. No litter blew across these streets and no empty cans were lobbed into the next gardens by lager louts.
Babarr drove more rapidly than was necessary and his eyes flicked at the mini-palaces to his left and right. Incredibly, his pectoral and neck muscles seemed to swell in response to this vision of suburban wealth. Musa became aware of another bulging vein in his left forearm and realised that Babarr, the Confucius-loving, bullshit-hating, muscle-bound Czar of construction, was preparing for a confrontation.
“Who’s the client?” he asked.
“Santosh Pandey.” Babarr said this with disgust. “He owns a restaurant and several newsagents in the city centre. He is seriously loaded. He’s been pestering me to do an extension to his house but the fucker won’t pay me what I’m worth. It’s his woman that’s the problem; she is one clever bitch. Every time I’m speaking sense to the guy she butts in and then he looks at her and then at me and then goes, ‘Oh, no, no, no,’ and we’re back
to square one. It’s like, you know, and what business is it of yours? How dare you fucking shove your oar in when two blokes are discussing business? It ain’t like I’m asking to marry your daughter now is it? So today I’m gonna put it to him all nice and simple and respectful like and if he still won’t agree to a fair price then I’m gonna burn his fucking house down.”
Babarr motioned ahead: “There he is. Outside his house.”
Musa saw two figures, one gesticulating wildly. That was the exasperating Sajid who was dressed in his usual clownish pair of navy-blue dungarees. To elevate his stature he wore leather boots with soles at least three inches thick. The van pulled up and Babarr sat still, watching his adversary from a few feet away.
Santosh Pandey was a wiry, bespectacled man with thick pomaded hair, neatly brushed to one side. His dark complexion was smooth, as if it had been ironed for business along with his dark blue suit, and he stood with his hands clasped, bowing his head politely at the fusillade of high volume babble coming from Sajid.
“Look Pandeyji. You gotta accept the fact that Kashmir is ours and even if it ain’t why can’t you lot give it to us? You’ve got the best batsman in the world. You’ve got ten billionaires and we ain’t even got one. So let me ask you, brother to brother, is it gonna kill you to give us Kashmir?”
Babarr sighed and rolled his eyes upwards. He got out of the van along with Musa and briskly he cut short Sajid’s eloquence.
“Shut the fuck up,” he commanded and as if by magic Sajid fell silent. He looked at Musa and a sly ugly grin creased his ugly face. Musa knew what was coming next.
The Reluctant Mullah Page 6
