The other boy turned; this must be Aslam. “So you wake at last. It is midday.” He was pinched in the face with a haunted look. Razaq thought his eyes were those of a hunted wolf in the forest. The boy glanced nervously out to the eating area. “You had better get some naan soon.”
Razaq went outside to pee in a drain. The smells of the curry the other boy was cooking made his stomach rumble. When he came back in, the boy gave him a chapatti and a bowl of leftover curry. In it was floating one piece of bone with a few tufts of meat clinging to it. It had more chili than Razaq was used to, but he guessed it was all he would get. He pushed it down while Aslam told him where to go to buy the bread for customers.
He raced out, dodged buses, dogs, bicycles, and travelers with their bags. The boy cooking the naan at the tandoor oven was older than he was, more like Hussain’s age. “Haven’t seen you before,” he said. “You new around here?”
Razaq nodded. “I work for Kazim.”
The boy didn’t reply at first; he was concentrating on getting the bread out of the clay tandoor with his long hooked rod. “Kazim with the teashop?” he finally asked.
“It is called a restaurant,” Razaq said.
“I suppose that’s possible,” said the boy as he wrapped the bread in newspaper. “Watch your back, that’s all I can say.”
The warm smell of the risen bread made Razaq feel hungry. He had only eaten naan a few times at weddings in the village. It had been very tasty as he remembered. Next time, he would take some of his father’s money and buy himself one. Maybe it wouldn’t matter that it was Ramadan—the bus terminal seemed to be exempt from the fast: he could see men eating as they walked to the buses.
Back in the kitchen, he checked Aslam wasn’t watching and took out his father’s purse. He fingered the paper notes. He had never had money of his own. Sometimes they swapped milk for eggs with Ardil’s family if the chickens weren’t laying, or apricots for grapes, but there was never an exchange of money. His father grew small crops of rice and wheat or corn. They had only just harvested the corn before the earthquake, and they hadn’t yet separated their own needs from what they would give to the khan. It had all been lost. And Peepu, the animals. He tried to keep his mind away from his mother and sisters, the image of his father’s body. He put five rupees in his pocket, then he hid the purse under his blanket.
The second time that day he was sent to the tandoor oven, he was on his way back, finishing his own naan and feeling almost happy, when he passed a bus. A boy was cleaning the windows—without any energy, Razaq noticed. Just then the driver jumped out of the door. It was the man called Saleem who had brought them down from the mountains. He grabbed Razaq by the arm and hustled him between two buildings, not far from Kazim’s restaurant. He turned Razaq to face him.
Razaq bit his lip. “What do you want?”
Saleem half-laughed, his face close to Razaq’s. “You are like a mountain wolf, so strong and proud.”
Razaq leaned backward. No one had said anything like that to him before, and he didn’t like the look in Saleem’s eyes. He looked as if he was going to eat him.
“Come now,” Saleem’s voice wheedled. “It won’t take long. I haven’t been home for a week. I’ll pay you twenty rupees.”
Razaq was confused. Twenty rupees sounded good, but what did he have to do? Give him the naan? It had cost fifteen. He’d be five ahead. Razaq slowly held the bread out toward Saleem.
The look in the man’s eyes changed. “Bebekoof, you idiot,” and he grabbed Razaq and spun him around in one movement and shoved him up against the wall. The naan fell to the ground as Saleem fumbled with his shalwar cord with one hand. Suddenly, Razaq understood.
“No.” He twisted to smash out with his fist. “Leave me alone.”
He managed to hit Saleem’s chin, but Saleem banged his face into the wall and held him there with one arm. Razaq’s head spun; he couldn’t escape Saleem’s grasp, however much he squirmed. He felt the man’s body behind him, thrusting to get closer, one hand pushing up his shirt. He tried to kick with his foot, but Saleem had thought of that, too. Razaq was firmly held. Would anyone care if he shouted again?
Suddenly, there was a curse, another voice. “Stop!”
Saleem let Razaq go, and he fell. He scrambled backward out of the way.
“Badmarsh!” It was Kazim and he held a broom. He whacked Saleem over the head with it.
“Stop hitting me, you old devil. I wouldn’t hurt him. I just wanted some fun.”
“Not with him you can’t.”
“I didn’t know he was yours. Put that broom down!”
Razaq hastily picked up the bread; it was still wrapped in the newspaper. He brushed off the dust and stood near Kazim.
Kazim lowered the broom and Saleem sneered at him. “What do you want with him anyway? You couldn’t make your pizzle stand up straight with string.”
Kazim’s face darkened. “Don’t touch him again, sunno? Do you hear?”
“Ji, you stupid bastard.” Saleem stomped off to his bus.
Razaq regarded Kazim tentatively. “Shukriya, thank you,” he said, but there was no sympathy from Kazim. He smacked Razaq’s ear with his open hand.
“What do you think you’re doing going down a deserted gali with him?”
“I didn’t know.”
Kazim stared at Razaq. Then he said, “What are these crumbs on your mouth? You’ve been eating my naan?”
“Nay, janab, I bought one myself.”
Kazim narrowed his eyes. His stillness was more frightening than the beating. For a moment, Razaq thought he was in trouble for eating during Ramadan. Then Kazim said quietly, “You have money? Where did you get it?”
“My father.”
“Your father?” Kazim relaxed slightly. “Show me.” Razaq took the few rupees from his pocket. Kazim scooped them up. “You don’t need this. From now on, I provide for your every need. This will help pay off the exorbitant price I paid for you.”
“But—”
“You have too much to say for yourself.”
Razaq didn’t agree; he hadn’t said much at all. His father always told him that none should lord it over another—except the khans, of course, but that was different. They were the ruling barons who owned the land and kept everyone safe, but as far as he knew, they didn’t keep slaves. And that’s what this felt like.
“Get inside. And next time,” Kazim grabbed Razaq’s arm, “next time dodge the drivers. They’re as randy as dogs and will stick their banana in any hole they see.” He gave Razaq a push.
Razaq took the naan into the eating room and laid it on the tables for the customers to eat. The TV was on, and he was beginning to recognize a few actors. The famous Amir Khan was fighting a secret agent in the Kashmiri snow. He noticed a few men stared at him as he watched the screen, until Kazim sent him off to help Aslam.
Razaq had to race for naan again that afternoon. This time, he only took a rupee of his own money. On the way back, he was relieved to see Saleem’s bus had gone. The boy who had been cleaning the windows was sitting on the ground eating a cold chapatti.
“You got away from Saleem.” The boy said it matter-of-factly. “You haven’t been here long?”
Razaq shook his head. The boy was a few years younger than he was, but he had a worn expression, as though he had lived most of his life already. “You work for Saleem? Clean his bus?”
The boy nodded.
“Do you get much money for that?”
The boy shrugged. “Some. It is enough to buy flour and salt to take home.”
“You have a family?” Razaq squatted beside him and handed him a piece of his naan.
“My father is crippled now and cannot work. I have sisters.” The boy swallowed. “This naan is tasty. My father doesn’t ask what I do, just that I bring money home.”
“Working on the bus is good?”
The boy looked up and Razaq was shocked to see the bleakness in his eyes. “It is not just the cleaning an
d getting chai. Saleem protects me from the other men.”
Razaq nodded. “Kazim did that for me today.”
“Kazim is just protecting his property.” The boy paused. “I have to do anything Saleem wants, sometimes it is every day. I thought I would have a rest from it today when he saw you.”
Razaq rocked back onto the balls of his feet and blew out a breath. “He does that with you? You let him?”
Defiance sparked in the boy’s face. “What else can I do? I have no skills, I cannot even read, and I have to feed my mother and sisters. Better me than them.”
“Kazim doesn’t do that to me.”
The boy’s eyes held no pity. “It is just a matter of time.”
Razaq thought about it as he washed the dishes throughout the night. His friend Ardil came to mind. Ardil’s family were their closest neighbors, but then Ardil was sent to live with one of the khan’s friends, all his schooling and upbringing paid for. Now Razaq wondered what Ardil’s life had really been like in that stranger’s house. Had Ardil seen a look in that man’s eyes like Razaq saw in Saleem’s, as if he were a goat about to mount a she-goat?
Kazim wouldn’t let him go, he knew that now, not when he had paid so much money. To find his uncle, he would have to sneak out when Kazim was asleep in the early hours of the morning. He would have to pick the best day. At least he had his father’s purse. He could feed himself until he found his uncle and got another job.
Days dragged by. Razaq’s time was so used up he had no energy to think about leaving. He was too tired to do anything early in the morning except collapse onto his blanket. He kept telling himself that he would be used to the hard work soon, and then he would have enough energy to leave, but it seemed as though the more he got used to the work, the more he had to do. He was starting to feel the way Aslam looked: thin and tired. Each morning he’d wake to find Aslam preparing the food. Aslam never did anything quickly, which was the cause for numerous cuffs over the head from Kazim. Razaq received his share, too, if he was too long coming from the tandoor oven.
When he had been there a week, Razaq asked Kazim for his pay. “Can I have what is owed me?”
Kazim was standing at the stove; he whipped around and grabbed Razaq around the neck with one hand. “What’s owed you? I’ll give you what is owed you.” His hand tightened around Razaq’s neck. Razaq gagged. “You get no wages until the money I paid for you is made up.” He grinned as he released Razaq. “And that will take years.”
Razaq coughed and tried again. “The money you paid was commission, not my wages.” His voice ended in a squeak.
Kazim pulled back his arm and smacked Razaq across the face. “You ungrateful shaitan. I am feeding you, you have a place to sleep, and you have work to do.” For each of those things he hit Razaq over the head. “What more do you want? Most boys have none of this. You should be thanking me for saving you from the streets. Do you know what they do to you out there?” He leaned closer to Razaq. “They gouge your eyes out. Those green eyes would make a rupee or two. Or they take your kidney to sell and forget to sew you up again. Do you want that?” Kazim pulled Razaq’s head up. Blood ran from his nose. “What do you say, boy?”
Razaq saw the look in Kazim’s eyes, noticed his hand still curled. “Thank you,” he mumbled.
“I did not hear you.”
“Shukriya, janab.” Razaq said it louder and scowled.
Kazim relaxed, stood back a step. “It would be a pity to break that mountain spirit, but by Allah, I will if I have to. And I can, do you understand?”
Razaq managed to get rid of the scowl.
“Go and do your work, and don’t get any ideas beyond yourself. You work for me, I look after you. That is all there is to it.”
Razaq didn’t like the sound of Kazim looking after him. Saleem looked after his boy, too, but what sort of care was that?
The next morning when Razaq woke, Aslam’s back was toward him. He checked his father’s purse. When he opened it, he let out an exclamation of horror.
Aslam didn’t even turn. “What is wrong with you?” he said.
“My money. It’s gone.”
Aslam shrugged. “We are not allowed to keep money.”
“You took it,” Razaq said, getting into a crouch.
Aslam kept chopping coriander. “He made me.” He didn’t even sound defensive or sorry.
Razaq stared at his back. Did Aslam have any spirit left? A thought suddenly struck him. “Does Kazim skewer you?”
Aslam shook his head. “Kazim doesn’t act like that.”
Razaq glanced down at his father’s empty purse, then pulled up his head as Aslam carried on. “One of the drivers does.”
Razaq pulled Aslam around to face him. “You must tell Kazim. He will stop it—” The words froze on his tongue. Tears were dribbling down Aslam’s face.
“Kazim gets paid every time.”
“But are you not his nephew?”
“I don’t know. He calls me that.”
“But that makes Kazim a . . .”
“Ji, a dala. He finds boys for men who want them.”
“He stopped Saleem doing it to me.”
Aslam’s shoulders drooped. “He must have big plans for you then.” His gaze dropped to Razaq’s purse. “Sorry about your money.”
“It was two months’ wages at least.”
“Not here it wouldn’t be. I will never pay off my debt. My father thought he was being paid for an apprenticeship. That is what he thinks I am doing all day—training to be a cook.”
“You go home each night. Why do you come back?”
“We need the money—every time I am skewered, Kazim gives me twenty rupees.” He shrugged. “If I was not working for Kazim, it would be someone else. At least he looks after me.”
“Does he?” Razaq said, then regretted it. What could Aslam do? His family would probably be attacked if he ran away from Kazim. Razaq sighed. At least he didn’t have a family who could be held to ransom for his actions. Nor was he going to wait around to be treated like a goat. He gave Aslam a half-smile. “I am going to find Uncle Javaid. He works in a cloth shop in Moti Bazaar.”
Razaq thought of all the things he knew about his uncle. He was his father’s younger brother. He lived near Raja Bazaar. His wife, Amina, was a girl from the mountains, too, and Uncle Javaid had come home to marry her. Amina was Feeba’s cousin. Razaq had been about the age of his sister Seema at the time of the wedding. He remembered the huge degs of curry and rice the barbers had cooked, the music, the men dancing, the guns shooting in the air for joy. His uncle had looked like a prince in a pearled turban as he danced with him. “You’re a good dancer, you’ll be doing this one day, Razaq,” he had said, and grinned, but he’d looked nervous, too. Razaq had gone into the women’s tent to see Amina; to his young eyes she had looked like a houri from Paradise. He had always wondered if Feeba would grow up to look like that. He remembered the body they had recovered at the school. There had been too much blood for him to see Feeba’s face.
He shook his head clear. Yes, he’d leave today, on his trip to the tandoor oven, money or no money. He’d take the rupees for the naan and be done with it.
Chapter 6
As Javaid came down the mountain, he noticed colored boats with loud tractor engines carrying food supplies docking at the village. A few Western people from the boats brought the supplies to shore. Tents were lined up near the river, and he strolled down there, but without calling outside the tent flaps, he couldn’t tell if anyone he knew was inside. He carried on past the tents until he came to the end of the rows. A woman was tending a fire with a saucepan bubbling above it, no doubt a meal for when the fast ended. The woman saw him and quickly covered her face with her shawl. She looked familiar, like one of Amina’s aunties.
“Auntie ji?” he said.
She glanced up at him. “Nadeem?”
“No, I am his brother. Have you seen him?”
She shook her head slightly.
> “Have you had much loss?” he asked gently.
“All my family, except my son.”
“I am very sorry to hear that.”
She brightened. “But my son has gone to the city to get a job. He will return with money to build me a house.”
Javaid stared at her in pity. If she was the aunt he thought she was, she had suffered greatly. She wasn’t making sense at all. How could one young man make enough money to build a house? He excused himself and walked toward some tents where children were playing soccer. He quickened his steps. There was a colorful sign saying: You have the right to play. He frowned—it sounded like a Western outfit.
“Yes?” A young white woman was inside the tent with a group of girls. Like a flock of birds taking flight, the girls covered their heads with one sweep of their hands. The woman was startling to look at, and he averted his eyes.
“I am sorry to intrude, but I am looking for my family,” he said in English.
The woman asked an older girl to take the class, then she said to Javaid, “Come with me.” She took him to another tent where a man sat at a desk.
“I am looking for Nadeem Khan’s family,” Javaid said to him.
The man opened a book that looked like a ledger. “We are trying to keep track of who survived,” he said, crinkling his forehead. He checked on many pages while Javaid waited, then finally shook his head.
Javaid wished the man would look again. “They had children: a boy, Razaq, about fourteen, and two younger girls, Seema and Layla?”
“Did you say Razaq?” the woman said. Her English was fast and difficult to understand. “A boy named Razaq came here.”
“Razaq Nadeem Khan?” Javaid hardly dared hope.
She thought a moment. “I don’t know, he didn’t say. He was helping for a day or two, but he hasn’t returned.”
Javaid glanced at the book. “Would you not have written it down?”
The man looked up. “I only started the records yesterday.”
Javaid addressed the woman again. “What did this Razaq look like?”
Spirit of a Mountain Wolf Page 4
