Temporary People

by Deepak Unnikrishnan

  She’s also crazy. When I found out she was two months late, woman was pretty clear she wanted a boy. If Allah had e-mail, my begum wouldn’t have stopped writing him, get? I’ll tell you why, yaara.

  When Begum was pregnant with our firstborn, I told her, Girl!

  She countered, Boy! Woman should have listened.

  So when I knocked her up again, the fourth month, she asked me to guess again.

  Don’t matter, I said.

  Begum got persistent. Boy, right? Boy, right? Boy?

  Don’t matter, woman, I said again. So what she does? Whatever her Rawalpindi-ass tells her to, that’s what. Note this, friend: She’s getting an ultrasound to check if the baby’s doing whatever it’s supposed to, right, and when she’s staring at the monitor, watching my baby’s heart, begum says, I think I see his penis. And the lady doctor, what she do? She says, Show me!

  Part of me felt she’d jinxed the birth after that stunt. But my begum didn’t care; she told everyone. Boy, it’s a boy. It’s a boy, BOY!

  She not naming my boy, though, that would be taking things too far. That’s my job, yaara. I named our girl, too.

  We’ll call the boy Zameer.

  What’s that, what did I name the girl? Zohra.

  *

  But enough about me! What kind of work do you do, friend? Or were you just visiting someone when I picked you up?

  Lecturer? Mash’Allah! Don’t look it, yaara. Body’s fit and slick, no doubt. I like those earrings, too. How old are you? You don’t say! Still hot-blooded, I bet. Married? Kids? May I offer some advice? Don’t take it the wrong way, all right? At your age, thirty-shirty, take advantage, don’t miss out on ready-made masti. Know what I mean? Take advantage. After a while, your engine don’t reboot so good. Once you’ve got kids, everything’s different. Back in the day, I had many girlfriends; now, not so much. I mean, every now and then, you know, I satisfy my needs, but I’ve slowed down. Tits and pussy juice, all placed on standby. I’ve got priorities, yaara. I’ve got to teach my little girl to talk. We talk every day, my angel and me. She’s three now and take my word for it, she’s her father’s daughter. No nonsense. All business. I want this! I want that! Hold up, yaara, I’ve got a picture. See, what I tell you? Heartbreaker, right? You know what she told me the other day? Baba, if you don’t come home with presents, I’ll break your daanth. Know what I mean by daanth? Tell me, what’s daanth in English? That’s right—teeth. Your Urdu, by the way, is decent. Your grammar needs more work, though. You’re mixing up your hes and shes.

  So. Your wife works? Yeah, yaara, times are tough. You don’t need to tell me why people aren’t hiring. You don’t have kids yet, you said. Some advice, don’t mind, from one brother to another: have the first one when your begum’s unemployed. She’s not doing anything anyway. That’ll give her some time to look after the baby and all. Then, you know, in two, three years, put the kid in daycare. It’s not expensive. They’ve got them everywhere now. Filipina daycare, Indian, Pakistani, licensed, unlicensed, anything you want. Then put the wife to work. Then you don’t have to worry about family pressures. My elder brother waited too long. Then my sister-in-law couldn’t conceive. Her parts weren’t right or something, but they fixed her. Took her nine years, though. You don’t want that. Don’t mind me saying so, but you’ve got to hit that shit when it’s still brand new and oiled and warm. You got to plan ahead, yaara. Before you die, you want to be able to run after your grandchildren, don’t you? Not get wheeled around like an infant, know what I mean? I’ve seen these foreign women at Abu Dhabi Mall. They think it’s normal to be parents when you’re fifty. You should be thinking about grandchildren at fifty! Sometimes, common sense should prevail.

  Man, you’ve got me squawking like a parrot. I mean, you’re not upset or anything, right? Good, good. You’ve got to ask nowadays. People on their phones and shit put their lips on silent. Who talks anymore?! But you’re the customer, yaara. I’ve got to check if it’s cool to go all motormouth on you. Believe you me, brother, I could drive you to Dubai without saying another word. Your call—that what you want?

  You’re not just saying that, right? Well, you’re a gentleman then. You understand, yaara. Most customers should know on long drives, talking’s like caffeine, but think customers give a shit? Most of them are busy humping WhatsApp or Facebook in the backseat. The roads are straight here, see, highways wide. And then you’ve got your AC-wayC—always full blast! Last thing you wanna do is shut your eyes. You wanna stay alert, friend, not crash because you’re bored.

  *

  Yaara—HEY, YAARA—if it’s all right by you, got to make a stop right by that exit, OK? Need to get some petrol and piss away my morning tea. I’ll put the meter on hold. That cool? I mean, customers don’t give it much mind, but the hardest thing about driving people around is finding public toilets. Sometimes you don’t piss for hours because you’re thinking about your target. Or, God forbid, your tummy’s about to Pompeii and your fare’s just gotten in and you’re wondering whether your bum’s gonna listen to your mind. Or your back feels like cement because your spine’s stuck to the seat. Or you’re carting around customers, one after the other, and you’ve got to take them all, because if you turn one down, that chuthiya might call management and complain, and that’s another maa-kee fine coming out of my pay, yaara. But then, gradually, your wrists and back get used to staying in one place for hours, your tummy’s like, whatever, and you get used to pissing and shitting after your shift. That’s eight to ten hours’ worth of festering piss and shit, friend. Or you eat once a day, right after you wake. I mean, I’m no doctor, but after a while, you’re screwed, right? Anyways, you’re a good egg, yaara. I’ll be back before you miss me.

  *

  Right, off we go again. I needed that wee, friend.

  So tell me something: These kids you teach, they get rubbers for free, right? At your school place, of course! Students just need to ask, right? Don’t play ignorant, friend, don’t bullshit a bull-shitter. I’ve seen MTV back in the day, I watch Gum of Thrones. And I know how Americans raise their women. Know how I know? I’m driving this Nepali chikna to the city, right. Kid probably started shaving yesterday. Anyway, picked him up where I picked you up on some weekday when traffic’s shit. We’re stuck near —bitch-ass traffic—and we’re talking, and he’s telling me how he’s been boning chicks using rubber, he’s been getting from you-know-whose, right? And I’m boning your mum before namaaz, I tell him. I mean, c’mon, everybody knows if you’ve got to buy rubber, you stop by Spar or LuLu’s, right? And when I was studying back in the day, we knew better than to advertise your cock’s intention to ram the local beauty. Know what he tells me? He tells me, I’m serious man, there’s Amreekun-made pussy to be had Sunday through Monday. Fuckin’ buffet, he tells me. But I don’t trust Nepalis, yaara. Nobody wants to fuck them, so they make up these ridiculous stories about anything living wanting to fuck them. I mean, if you had to choose between Pakistani and Chin-Cho-Chow-Cho dick, it’s no contest, right? Still, even if they’re pencil-dick maaderchods, Nepalis, they’ve got great work ethic. I mean, they’ll work till they die, yaara. Not like us Indians and Pakistanis. We’re chuthiyas. That Nepali probably fucked Amreekuns like his life depended on it, because if he didn’t, how’s he going to get that green card?

  And what about you, yaara? Plenty of girlfriends on call in your line of work, I’ll bet? You’re shitting me! You’ve got nothing on the side either? What you got at home, yaara? Pussy marinated in Pashtun hash? Sorry, that was out of line, but you seem like the sort of guy who plays the field. How many notches on that bedpost? Only five? C’mon, you’re Amreekun-return, right? Tell me you’ve devoured gori madams for lunch, breakfast, and dinner! Come, now, don’t be shy. I’ve got a cousin in Misheegun. No joke, yaara, my haraamkhor cousin’s been test-driving Amreekun goris since Clindon Bhai’s presidency. What you say in Amreekun bar-shops? Wam-bam? Well, my cousin’s a wam-bam kind of chuthiya.

  And since
we’re on the subject, let me ask you something, OK? You don’t have to tell me, but since we’re friends, you shouldn’t mind. Is your dick cut? I mean, I can ask, right? Your stick’s pretty big? How big? You’re putting me on! Rubber comes in sizes! Like T-shirts? I’ve seen colors and flavors, but sizes? Spill—you a one-rubber or two-rubber man? And your madam satisfied with Hindustani dick wrapped in two sheets of latex? I knew it, haraami! Now we’re talking!

  No, I don’t use condoms. Don’t need them. I mean, sure, I fool around; I like Filipina pussy, know what I’m saying. They like singing kar-o-kee and they like men in charge. I’ve got a Karachi buddy who gets me a Pakistani discount. His merchandise, always clean, so rubbers no need. I don’t cum inside though. I’m perfectly satisfied watering the tip of the rose bush.

  What’s that, what my begum think of rubber-shubber? Look, yaara, I see my begum every two to four years. I’m not going to dress my dick in a rubber suit when it’s supposed to go skinny-dipping. Not the same. My begum likes it that way too. So if we’ve got more kids on the way, we’ve got more kids on the way. You won’t hear me complaining.

  Is it hard to what? Live apart from family? Look, yaara, why don’t you ask me what’s really on your mind. You want to know if I feel guilty fuckin’ other women? Sometimes. But I don’t love any of them. My heart’s my begum’s. But vice is fun, fella. I partake, but you’ve got to be careful. I live in , see. That’s taxi-people territory. Most of us live there. It’s a big complex. Just us men, though, with fut-aah-fut facilities: football and cricket, books and TV. We’re not far from the women’s quarters, though. And don’t know what you’ve heard, friend, but is different now. Used to be run down and bloated with emptiness. Now? Yaara, everything’s available now. I mean, everything: groceries, batteries, men, women. Everything. But I don’t do anything there. Too many eyes wondering what mischief you’re up to, enough tongues to rat you out. I don’t shit where I eat. I’m careful, yaara. ’s where my room’s at, understand; it’s where I sleep and salute the rule book. In the morning I wake up, brush, shower, and get out! I mean, I’ve got stuff to do. Four hundred and twenty-five dirhams per day’s no joke. That’s my target. Once that’s out of the way, I’ve got time to chill. Drive around. Maybe even return for some shut-eye. So I lucked out this morning, didn’t I? A Dubai jaunt is two hundred, easy. And it’s what, an hour or two past breakfast time now? That leaves me most of the afternoon to finish up my shift by dusk. Otherwise, I’m driving people until nine or ten p.m.. After that, it’s watered-down curry and rotis at my usual haunt. Then crawl back into bed. Rest the fuckin’ back. Sleep. Tomorrow, hit repeat.

  I’ve got roommates, yeah. One’s a chuthiya, some Multan-wala who should have been born dead. We’re forbidden to cook— people try and get caught—so I eat out, but I like a clean house, know what I mean? The Multan-wala haraami-behen-ki-lauda, he’s a slob. So I told him: You expect us to bend over and pick up your filth, bhenchod? Told him I’d tear him a new one in his sleep if he didn’t get his shit together. Listen, if he wants his room to smell like ass, he better be the only one living in it, gaandu motherfucker.

  You’ve been living here what, four, five months now? Tell me something, noticed the gays? City’s filled with them. Filipino people, they’re mostly gay. Then you’ve got those Arabs in skinny jeans and nice shoes walking all funny and smelling like toilet freshener! They’re gay, too. You’re Amreekun-return, right? Flor-da’s littered with gays, right, because it’s close to Disneyland? And New York’s their capital, no? But they’re mostly smart and rich and own all the TV channels, right? I thought so. And how about you? Sampled some boys-woys? C’mon, be honest. Me? Well, some gaand-masti back in the day. Like, you know what chappi means, right? Tell me then, what’s English for chappi? You’ve no clue what it means, do you, yaara? I’ll tell you. In English, it means sucking—to suckh-uh. Get what I’m saying? I’ve never offered, never needed to. I know what you’re thinking, I may be pudgy, but I’ve still got game. If I wanted to, I could snap my fingers right now and within ten minutes there’ll be someone who’ll suckh-uh my dick-uh. You don’t believe me?

  Let me tell you what happened last week. I was taking this white lady to Khalifa City. Fifteen minutes in, she gets a call. It’s the guy she’s been fuckin’. He wasn’t in the mood. So the woman, Russian I’m thinking, starts crying in the backseat. Then she asks me to turn around and take her home. I’m thinking, let’s try something. So I offer her some tissue because her mascara’s running. Before I know it, we’re talking. I mean, she’s talking, telling me her life story, how the guy she’s doing was married. That he’d been stringing her around for two years and she was thinking of ending it, even though she’s still into the chuth. Before I know it, I’ve pulled over in front of her villa and she invites me in. Insists, in fact. And she serves me orange juice. And then her hands are on my thigh. Listen, I could’ve done anything to her and she would’ve let me. But I’m thinking, I’m in a villa by Al Reef. My taxi’s parked outside. The neighbors know the driver’s in the house; security has seen me enter the premises. If someone dials management, or worse, the shurtha, I might as well drop my pants and walk out the door with my gaand in the air. So what I do? I thank the lady for her hospitality and get the hell out of there.

  Yell out that address for me again. What’s the name of the place again, you say? And spit out that exit for me again. Exit 43. OK, 43.

  We’ve got two more exits to go; in another fifteen, you’ll be where you need to be.

  *

  Tell you what, yaara? Take my number down. You need to go somewhere—Dubai, Sharjah, shopping by Al Wahda—you call me, OK? I’ll take care of you. Bring the wife. I promise I’ll behave. When Madam’s in the car, we can’t gup-shup like this, you get? When Madam’s here, we dispense with guy talk. Respect, full-fledged and absolute, that’s what Madam gets. Believe you me I’m shy, yaara. With you though, I can drop the act and be myself, without having to worry. But with Madam—

  There’s the exit. You sure you just want me to park by the gate? I could wait till you’re done. I mean, it’s illegal to ferry you back and all—Abu Dhabi taxis aren’t allowed to pick up return fares from Dubai—but for you, I’ll look the other way. No? Sure?

  *

  Well, it’s been a pleasure. And the forty dirham tip for a two-hundred-buck ride, you really shouldn’t have. I mean, you’re really hell-bent on spoiling me today, aren’t you, yaara? First, conversation, and now, this! I told you, the minute I saw you, I knew, this boy’s going to be my golden ticket today. You must let me shake your hand and say goodbye then, like men who must be brothers, face-to-face. You’ve still got a few minutes before your meeting, right? I promise this won’t take long. Let me just put the hazards on, unfasten my seatbelt, and get out of this stupid Corolla. You know some smart-ass Bitish told me it’s the world’s best-selling ride. That’s marketing talk, if you ask me. My brother-in-law owns a Datsun pickup from the eighties. He should have turned it into scrap, but the Datsun’s given him no trouble whatsoever. Ever seen a Datsun? I’m sure that haraami Bitish wouldn’t even know a Datsun from an Isuzu if it ran him over on Sheikh Zayed Road.

  Anyways, I’ve been picking up fares in this Jaapaan-ki maal for five years now, and let me tell you, it’s an honor to shake the hand of a young man who’s been such a pleasure, such a pleasure. And ooh, what we have here? I thought right then. You work out, friend. May I?—only a quick squeeze—Oh my!

  There’s potential in your biceps, yaara, so much potential…

  But, hmm…

  Don’t mind, OK. I’ve got to tell you something: your arms, as good as they look, are still a bit flabby in places. That’s a shame, friend. They looked decent in the rear-view mirror, almost as good close up, but on proper inspection, it’s clear you’ve failed to maintain them. Yaara, you’ve got to maintain them. See, when you slap an arm that’s solid, nothing moves; it’s the sort of arm that flexes on demand, with muscles on standby. But you, fi
ne as you may be, should take another look at your triceps. That’s the back part. They’ve gone soft. Like, everything’s OK, but nothing’s great. And now that I can see you up close, it’s obvious your middle needs work, too, and you’ve spent too much time in the sun. Maintenance. You’ve got to maintenance your shit. If you don’t, in a year or two, your chest will be tits. Then you will wake up one morning and feel like someone rammed your legs up your own stretch-marked ass. But you don’t look like that kind of guy. You look like you’re going to make it, with your nice glasses and crease-free trousers. You look like you’ve smeared your skin with education and firangi moisturizer. Big fish. The kind of man my daughter’s going to snare and staple to her heart until his money builds her a house and gifts her Bitish papers. Believe you me, we’ll find someone just like you to gift-wrap when she’s older. But—don’t mind me saying so—better, taller, fairer. Just remember, maintenance. You have to maintenance your shit. Otherwise you’re forgettable, friend. Normal-assed, normal-hipped, normal shit.

  CHABTER SIX

  THE ANNIVERSARY

  Doped against your will, anyone could be pushed to torture, to eat his own child, to denounce God. The beast has been unleashed and it will not be tamed. My client is a family man, a God-fearing man who was not in control of his actions that day. He was duped into doing what he did by men who abused his trust. It was a set up.

  —THE DEFENSE

  PROLOGUE

  Every year, on the last day of April, as the sun dips below horsebrown dunes, the men of my city are required to assemble in the sands where an oasis used to be. To witness the reenactment of a series of acts committed by a man on another man in the early aughts, and to learn why the first man was acquitted in court. What transpires is a play. Attendance is mandatory.