More Than Just a Pretty Face

by Syed M. Masood

  The audience started to laugh. I grinned at them.

  Principal Weinberg sighed heavily into her microphone. “As thrilling as I’m sure your personal life is, Mr. Jilani, I think we’d all rather you get this over with.”

  I nodded. “Yeah. Sure. I’m ready to start.”

  I reached over and grabbed a bottle of water. My hand still trembled, but only slightly. I took a quick sip, then a deep breath, and began to speak.

  “I hate Indians. They are a beastly people with a beastly religion.”

  A shocked silence fell over the hall.

  Then the lights in the auditorium went dim. The projector came on, and a map of the world at night, all its major cities lit up like stars, went up behind me.

  “Sir Winston Churchill said that. I’m guessing all of you know who he is. We learn about him in school. There are a bunch of movies about him. A lot of books too. I’m told there’s a bust of him in the Oval Office, but I can’t be sure. I’ve never been.”

  I looked down at the judges. Principal Weinberg was smiling up at me now, and the two men I didn’t recognize seemed interested.

  “Churchill was unique. Yes, he was a politician. It’s what he’s known for. He was more than that, though. In many ways, he was a Renaissance Man.”

  A few people cheered upon hearing the name of the contest dropped in.

  “Churchill was a storyteller. Before he became prime minister, he was a reporter. After the Second World War, he was a historian. You know how they say that the winners get to write the history books? Churchill literally got to do that. He wrote a six-volume book about the war. His book framed the narrative of what happened in that war—a war that, more than any other, informs our world today.”

  I felt the urge to start pacing, but I closed my eyes for a moment, imagined I was surrounded by goose droppings, and stayed put.

  “In his book, Churchill doesn’t seem to want to talk much about the fact that he oversaw the deaths by starvation of three million people in Bengal.”

  I started by explaining that there had been no famines in that region since the British had left, and that recent scientific studies showed that the Bengal Famine of 1943 had not been caused by a lack of rainfall.

  I took them through my next points quickly, outlining how Churchill’s scorched-earth war policies, combined with decades of plundering of the province by the British, led to a famine that he then proceeded to ignore. Food was stockpiled elsewhere, because that was how Churchill chose to allocate the resources available to him.

  “So, maybe you’re asking yourself, why does it matter? Maybe Churchill was a hero. Maybe he was a monster too. I’m not sure if you guys know this, but he’s been dead for a while now. Why are we talking about it?”

  I took another sip of water.

  “We’re talking about it because the spirit of Churchill lives. Like I said, we still tell stories about him, we honor his memory. The stories we tell, who they’re about, why we tell them, and how we tell them matters. The story of Churchill is the story of a man and of an age where people were not equal. For Churchill, white men were better than brown men, Christians were better than Hindus, Britishers were better than everyone.”

  My phone, resting on the lectern, buzzed again. A fresh wave of laughter ran through the crowd as the microphone picked up the sound.

  Principal Weinberg sighed. “Would you like to share that note with the rest of the audience?”

  I glanced at the text Bisma had sent.

  You’re doing so great.

  “Sure. She thinks this is going really well.”

  More laughter.

  Weird. I’d been so afraid, for so long, of everyone laughing at me, but now that it was happening, it didn’t bother me at all.

  “Anyway, my paper—and I—argue that our way of looking at the world today is the same as Churchill’s way of looking at it. We’re taught from an early age that America and Americans are special. That we’re better than other countries. We aren’t given any proof of this, of course—”

  “America first!” someone shouted.

  “Right. As you can see, we believe it anyway. The conviction that they were superior to everyone was central to the British colonizing mission, and it is the central belief of our colonizing mission. Churchill and the British set out to bring enlightenment to other parts of the world, and we now go out to bring democracy to the world. The end result is the same: the exploitation and destruction of other people for financial gain. We are, sadly, still contemporaries of Churchill, who Franklin Roosevelt once called a mid-Victorian.”

  I took a deep breath. “In other words, myths of racial and national supremacy are still around. We must speak against them. There’s no point in having a voice if you don’t use it, and it isn’t enough to use your voice to only speak your truth. If lies that oppress any people go unchallenged, if these lies are allowed to share space with the truth, they start to seem valid. They’re not, though. So we’ve got to use our voices against narratives of inequality whenever they’re repeated, even if we benefit from them. If we’re silent in the face of injustice, then we’re unjust too.”

  I turned my back to the audience, facing the map behind me.

  “This is our world at night. This image is seen as a symbol of our development. We look at the pretty lights, and we pat ourselves on the back for all the progress we’ve made. But look at the dark places. Look at the places where there is no light. There are still people there, and they are just like us. We can tell ourselves we’re better than them, but we’re not. We live differently, mostly because of where we were born, but that doesn’t give us the right to use and discard others. Our humanity is dependent upon our recognition of their humanity. Either we’re all human, or none of us are. The darkness other people have to endure is the price for the light we enjoy. If history teaches us anything, it should teach us to not only look at the lights we kept on, but also the lights we put out.”

  I turned back to the audience.

  “So the next time you use your cell phone, think about the places where they are made, where there have to be safety nets so workers won’t kill themselves. Think about the kid in rags who stitched the clothes you’re wearing. Think about who you are. Who we are. We may be the ones writing the present, but that doesn’t mean we’ll be the ones writing history. If we stay our course, history may not remember us kindly, and even if it does, I’m not sure it matters. History is not morality. I’m not sure when and why we started thinking it was.”

  Silence.

  They weren’t clapping. Weren’t they supposed to be clapping?

  Then the principal leaned forward into her own microphone and said, “Questions.”

  Right. I’d forgotten about those.

  One of the other two judges, a wiry man with a thin, refined voice, said, “I do have a question, Mister…” He riffled through the pages before him, trying to find my name. Principal Weinberg leaned over and whispered in his ear. “Jilani.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “The British modernized India. They built factories and introduced the railway. Many feel that the Raj tremendously benefitted the subcontinent, and that the stewardship of the Empire was generally for the good of the people living there.”

  He stopped talking and looked up at me, as if expecting me to respond.

  I shrugged. “Sure. I read about that.”

  “Well, I suppose my question to you is, what would you say to those people?”

  Now for the first time, I had to look at my notes. There’d been no way to prepare for what the judges might ask, so this was one area where Bisma hadn’t been able to help me.

  I remembered there were numbers somewhere that would be useful. I just had to find them. In the meantime, I had to stall.

  “Well… I guess I could tell them about the horrible ways in which Indians were treated by the British. I could tell them”—I found the page I was looking for and pulled it out—“that before being colonized, India
made up twenty-three percent of the world economy, just like Europe did. By the end of the Raj, they made up just three percent. I’m not sure anyone can honestly argue that the British governed India for the benefit of Indians.”

  “Yes, Mr. Jilani,” the judge drawled. “But with all due respect, I didn’t ask what you could tell them. I asked what you would tell them.”

  “Oh. Well… that’s easy. With all due respect, I’d probably just tell them to fuck off.”

  For a second, it was so quiet you could’ve heard a goose fart.

  Then there was a roar of approval from one man, who stood up and screamed, “Mera cheetah!” and started clapping.

  It was my dad.

  Then my mom was standing, and then the lady next to her, and then the guy next to her. They rose like a human wave, until almost everyone was on their feet, and their applause went on and on until I finally walked off the stage.

  Intezar rushed at me, pushing everyone else waiting to congratulate me out of the way, and wrapped me up in a bear hug. Sohrab followed close behind, apologizing to everyone for Zar as he went by them.

  “That was awesome. You had me scared for a minute there.”

  I looked around for Bisma but couldn’t find her.

  “Thanks,” I said. “I was pretty scared myself for a while.”

  Sohrab grinned. “Well, it was very impressive.”

  “Hell yeah, it was impressive,” Zar said. “I can’t believe you dropped the f-bomb onstage at Renaissance Man. You’re going to be a legend, dude.”

  “Mr. Jilani.”

  All three of us cringed at the sound of Algie Tippett’s familiar voice.

  “Of course,” Sohrab reminded us, “most legends are dead. Good luck.”

  I took a deep breath and turned to face our history teacher, who was walking toward me, a folder in his hand. “What did you think?”

  “What did I think?” Tippett asked. “I think that was the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen a student do in my many years of teaching. Why would you curse at one of the judges, Danyal? Your presentation was decent. Your essay was surprisingly not entirely of low quality, despite the fact that I disagreed with your position. You could’ve won. Now, I think, it’ll be very difficult. Ms. Smith was also very good.”

  I looked at the old man, who’d taught here for so many years, and who’d never had a student he nominated win the Renaissance Man.

  “I guess I didn’t want to mess up your losing streak, sir.”

  Tippett let out a sigh. “I was under the impression that I warned you against developing a wit.” He thrust forward the folder he was holding. “Anyway, whatever happens, congratulations are still in order. You passed my class.”

  I took it from him and flipped it open. It was my essay, and on it, Tippett had written in green ink A+.

  I just stood there and stared at the page.

  Well… this was new.

  I mean, I was looking forward to losing my virginity and all, but there was no way it would feel better than this.

  By the time I looked up, Tippett was already walking away.

  And standing before me was Kaval Sabsvari.

  “So, after all that, you didn’t use any of my notes,” she said. There was a scowl on her face, and her arms were crossed in front of her. She sounded irritated, to put it mildly.

  “Sorry. I decided to go in a different direction.”

  “Fuck. You. That whole speech was a giant middle finger for me, wasn’t it? Just because I wanted you to be successful, just because I wanted you to do well, you thought what? That I was colonizing you? Using you for my financial benefit?”

  “What? Kaval, I didn’t say any of that. Come on. We’re friends—”

  “We’re not friends, Danyal. We never were. I can’t believe I wasted all that time on you. If all you wanted was a porn star, you should’ve just told me so, and I would’ve told you to go to hell.”

  I stared at her, stunned. How did she know? How could she possibly know?

  “That’s right. I overheard you talking to Sohrab at our house. That girlfriend of yours must’ve put on quite a show on that sex tape for you to just forget about me and—oh.” Kaval suddenly turned pink and stepped back, and I realized she was looking at someone behind me. “Hi, Mr. Jilani. We were just…”

  I turned around to look at my father, who had a plastic smile painted on his face.

  “Sorry,” he said, “I didn’t mean to interrupt you young people.”

  “No, Dad. It’s fine, I…”

  That’s when I finally saw Bisma. She was leaning against the back wall of the auditorium, arms folded, looking down at me with that heart-winning grin of hers radiating joy.

  “I’ll be right back,” I said. “Excuse me.”

  As I ran up to Bisma, she started to say something—she was probably going to congratulate me—but the words never escaped her lips. I captured them.

  It was a gentle, tentative, careful kiss. A light kiss.

  A small thing and an immense thing at the same time.

  Bisma pulled away a little and looked at me with eyes that set my heart on fire. “What are you doing?” she whispered.

  “Making you a promise,” I said.

  Then I kissed her again.

  And she kissed me back.

  And I understood what an oasis is, when you’re in the desert.

  And what dawn is, when you’re surrounded by darkness.

  And what music is, when all you’ve known is silence.

  And what hope is, when your heart is broken.

  It was when the hooting and wolf whistles began that I remembered we weren’t alone.

  Bisma pulled away, blushing furiously.

  Then her eyes went wide.

  And she yelped.

  And ducked.

  I should’ve ducked too, I guess, but instead I turned around to see what had caused Bisma’s reaction, and that was when one of my mom’s slippers struck me square in the face.

  I still hadn’t fully realized what had happened when Aisha Jilani charged at me, armed with her remaining chappal, and started hitting me on the back with it. “You. Can’t. Do. That. In. Public,” Mom yelled, punctuating each word with a fresh strike. “Besharam. What. Is. Wrong. With. You?”

  “Ow. Mom. Stop. Mom. Come on.”

  Bisma had turned traitor and was laughing at me.

  Actually, everyone was laughing at me.

  I felt my face go hot as my mother grabbed my ear and twisted it painfully.

  “Ow. Someone call CPS.”

  Mentioning Child Protective Services earned me two more thwacks.

  Bisma bent down and retrieved the slipper my mom had launched at me like a projectile—where had she learned to throw, anyway?—and handed it to my mother.

  “Thank you, Bisma dear. That’s very nice of you. I’m afraid you’ll have to try to succeed where I failed and civilize this one.”

  “Might be a lost cause,” Bisma said.

  “I got stuck with him. You chose him, so you’ve got no excuse not to try,” Aisha Jilani said, and then, still holding on to my ear, she began dragging me toward the exit.

  Once we were alone by the van, my mom finally let me go. She swatted at my shirt to dust off the marks left by her footwear. “Sorry,” she said. “Hope I didn’t hit you too hard. There were so many other women from the community there. Dekhana parta hai. I had to hit you to show them that it isn’t my fault that you turned out to be such a rascal.”

  “It kind of is your fault, though,” I said.

  “Yes, but they don’t have to know that.” She grinned at me. “So, first kiss, haan? How was it? Looked pretty good.”

  “Mom!”

  “Oh, so now you’re feeling some shame. Not when you’re latching your face onto the Akram girl’s in front of hundreds of people? Tell me, though. Didn’t I do a good thing when I found her?”

  “Yeah, Mom. You did.”

  She was all smiles until my father came to meet us, a
nd she saw that he was not smiling.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  “I did a horrible thing when I found this girl,” Aisha Jilani said.

  My parents were furious. Who would’ve thought they’d have zero chill about a sex tape? Right. Everybody. I hadn’t planned to tell them, of course, but my father had overheard what Kaval had said, and there was no coming back from that.

  “It isn’t your fault. Your son knew everything—”

  “Acha. Once again he is my son only, haan? Who just got up in front of all those people and called him his cheetah?”

  Not. This. Again.

  “Guys,” I said. “It’s not a big deal.”

  “Not a big deal,” my mother said with a fake hysterical laugh. “Did you hear that, Ahmed? He thinks it isn’t a big deal.”

  “If you didn’t think it was a big deal,” my father demanded, “then why did you hide it from us? You kept it buried like a cat buries its shit.”

  “I love this girl.”

  “No one cares about that,” my mom says. “Every man loves his wife—”

  My father gave an uncertain grunt, almost involuntarily I think, which got him a withering glare.

  “No one is going to care about your love for her,” she went on. “When people hear the words sex tape, that is all they’re going to be thinking about. We can’t give our name to a girl who has that kind of black mark on her character. What will everyone say?”

  “What does it matter?”

  My father held a hand to his head, like it was hurting really badly.

  “Danyal, you know we love you, but you’ve got to grow up,” my mother said. “We have to live in this world with other people. Their opinions matter, beta. We can’t just cut off our noses in front of all society because you’re infatuated with this girl.”

  “Okay,” my father said. “I’m done talking about this now. The decision is made. Danyal, you are not to see this girl again—”

  “It’s going to be hard to marry her without seeing her again.”

  “This discussion,” he growled, “is over. This is my house and my family, and my word is law.”

  “No.”

  My father’s eyes went wider than I’d thought humanly possible.