∞
ABOUT ZAFFAR JUNEJO
Zaffar Junejo is an author, translator, editor and publisher. He did his masters in science [computer technology] from the University of Sindh, Jamshoro/Hyderabad but left to pursue a career in the volunteer sector. He has translated 25 books into Sindhi for young readers. Along with his wife, he manages ‘Phoenix Books’ a publication house for children. Occasionally, he also writes for Newsline—a Karachi based monthly magazine. His contributions cover themes of social change, culture and literature.
Zaffar works at the Thardeep Rural Development Program, an NGO which strives to bring about changes in the lives of the dwellers of the Thar Desert—a Pakistani part of a desert that spans both countries—India and Pakistan. He also teaches and conducts workshop at national and regional levels.
He lives in Hyderad, Sindh along with his wife Rozina and three children—Elsa, Maghana and Sudharath. He can be reached at: [email protected]
The Old Willow
ADIANA RAY
Brattle Street was deserted even though it was just seven in the evening. Rocky turned his collar up against the sharp December cold as he made his way down Massachusetts Avenue to the welcoming beacon of Café Crema. A blast of hot air hit him in the face as he walked in, and the savory smell of pizza made him realize how hungry he was.
“Hi, how can I help you?” asked a disinterested girl behind the counter, not even bothering to look up from her contemplation of the chipped red nail polish on her nails. Rocky grimaced inwardly to himself - his charm was obviously wasted here.
As he walked to a table with his tuna-melt on rye and cappuccino, he couldn’t help empathizing with her though. Working on the twenty-sixth of December, when everybody was at home with their families; must suck big time. Even Crema was pretty empty and that was unusual to say the least.
“Hi, do you mind if I join you?”
Rocky glanced up at the short, stocky guy standing there, bundled up as if he were catching the ferry to Alaska. A maroon Harvard sweatshirt was just visible below his coat. The familiar accent caught his ear.
“Sure,” he moved his stuff to one side.
“Thanks.” The guy extended his hand, a warm smile on his face. “Hi, I’m Imran.”
Rocky shook the proffered hand as Imran sat down.
“Rocky. Where are you from?” Rocky’s tone was reserved. Usually it irritated him when desis just assumed an instantaneous connection and latched on. On the other hand he was feeling a bit lonely too. Holiday blues he thought wryly to himself.
“I’m from Karachi, first long holiday alone and I can’t believe how cold and depressing it can be.”
“Yup, everybody just takes off. What I wouldn’t give to be able to take a walk down Marine Drive today,” said Rocky, a nostalgic expression on his face.
“You live in Mumbai?” Imran was excited. “Have you seen any film stars? Have you seen Aamir Khan? That guy is amazing; loved his Ghajni.”
Rocky couldn’t stop his short burst of laughter. “Why does everybody assume that just because someone lives in Mumbai they are always bumping into film stars? As a matter of fact haven’t seen a single one, not one, in my eighteen years of living there.” He leaned back in his chair a slight smirk on his face.
Imran’s excitement abated a little at Rocky’s mocking tone. “Well if I lived in Mumbai, I would have definitely gone to see Aamir Khan,” Imran continued after a minute. “He’s really good, though sometimes I think a lot of it is media hype. But, I am a fan, a big fan,” he reiterated again, in case Rocky hadn’t gotten the idea the first time around.
“Media hype,” sputtered Rocky his chair hitting the ground with a thud. “What do you mean by that?” He couldn’t believe his ears.
“It’s the well-oiled Bollywood machine, janaab. All Aamir has to do is to announce that he’s launching a new movie and it’s certain to be a blockbuster,” alleged Imran matter-of-factly. “Now we have a fabulous director called Shoaib Mansoor. That guy makes great movies, but who’s ever heard of Lollywood?”
“Lollywood? What on earth is that?” asked Rocky, confusion written all over his face.
“Exactly,” said Imran smugly, his fingers beating a tattoo on the table. “You don’t even know that the film industry in Lahore is called Lollywood. Proves my point.”
“What point? That Bollywood is just marketing hype?” Rocky snapped back. “Aamir is talented, works damn hard, and gets the pulse right - his work speaks for him. Next you’ll say that Sania Mirza should start playing for Pakistan.” This guy was really beginning to irritate him.
“Well…she has married a Pakistani,” Imran shot back, unfazed.
“Has she become one?” Rocky leaned forward, steel in his voice.
“As a matter of fact, we don’t want her to. What’s her ranking anyway? Not among the top ten is she?” Imran was becoming aggressive as well. “And in any case,” he continued, “we Pakistanis play squash.” Casually, yet deliberately he sat up straight and put both his hands on the table between them. If Rocky wanted a fight he would get it.
“Dude it’s been ages since you had Jansher Khan up there,” Rocky said dismissively, “You haven’t had a quality player in what - fifteen years?”
“That’s what you think,” gritted Imran through his teeth, leaning forward, his face inches away from Rocky.
“Hey guys, what’s up?” came a friendly voice with an unmistakable twang.
Rocky and Imran broke their angry gaze to look up at the tall, gangly figure standing near their table.
“You two look pretty intense, all good?”
Rocky ran his fingers through his hair and leaned back in his chair.
“Yeah Kevin, we’re good. Hey, how come you’re here? I thought you were supposed to go home.”
“I was,” Kevin replied with a mischievous grin, “but I didn’t want to miss the big play-off tomorrow. Told the parents I had some pending coursework.”
Imran looked up puzzled. “What play-off?”
Now it was Kevin’s turn to look mystified. “Hockey…the Bruins…big match against the Redwings tomorrow,” he emphasized slowly for Imran’s benefit. How could somebody not know that?
“Hockey? You watch hockey?” Imran was confused. He’d never known anyone in the US to play hockey.
“Ice hockey,” Rocky clarified for his South Asian rival.
Imran snorted. “You mean the game where all they do is push each other around?”
Kevin’s eyebrows went up. “Push each other around? Hey! It’s a tough game, it requires skill and…”
Rocky put up a hand to stop his friend. “Oh No! No! No! There’s no skill needed to play ice hockey. You want skill, watch cricket. Look at Dhoni’s knock in the Tri-Series against Sri Lanka.”
Imran nodded, talking across to Kevin. “Yeah! Can you imagine—fifteen runs in the last over? That guy is a law unto himself. Now that is a real sport.”
A charged-up Rocky agreed. “What about Afridi playing against the West Indies? He was like a one-man team. Seven wickets in the ODI, and then he makes forty-six off twenty-seven balls in the T20. Total class.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Kevin sat down heavily on an empty chair between the two desis, bewilderment written all over his face.
“Cricket is a game of finesse, skill and stamina - hockey’s a pub brawl.”
“And all over in, what, ninety minutes?”
“Exactly. Ask one of those players to stick it out over five days…”
“Or, even five hours!”
“Whoa.” Kevin put his hands up to stem the tidal wave of derision coming from the others. “Seriously, what’s up with you two?”
“Hey! You know what; I have some great recordings of old matches. Want to come over and watch them?” Rocky ignored Kevin.
Imran’s eyes lit up. “Sounds good, man.”
They grabbed their coats and got up.
A stupefied Kevin watched them leave together as i
f they were best friends. As they headed towards the door, he heard their last exchange before they left the café.
“So who’s this director you mentioned?”
“No idea. I was quoting a magazine article.”
“We’re a pair of morons; I’ve never watched an Aamir Khan movie myself.”
Their laughter bounced off the walls.
∞
ABOUT ADIANA RAY
Adiana Ray believes in the Zen tenet ‘each state has a 1000 truths’. Every person brings their own unique experiences to a situation, which makes them see things differently and interpret it in their own way.
This is what inspires her to write, trying to see each relationship in a different way, and always having a new story to tell. When she writes, her story could be a fantasy, but will be a believable one that could happen to anyone of us and her focus, above all, is to entertain the reader.
***
Rapid Fall
by Adiana Ray
A story that begins with the rapids of the Ganga and has as many twists and turns as the river.
Available on www.indireads.com
Remnants of a Rainy Day
MAMUN M. ADIL
I still have the umbrella, even though I don’t think I have ever used it.
I have had it for more than a decade now, and even though it is tattered and torn, something prevents me from throwing it out. Like a talisman, I let it hang by the entrance of my apartment.
Sometimes, an unusually keen observer—usually a woman I hope never to see again—spots it, and exclaims in a pretentious manner, perhaps as a final act of seduction: “My, what an interesting looking thing…”
I choose to ignore such trivial comments, and let these irrelevant women out of the door, and try to forget the fact that I have spent a night, or a few hours, with them, hoping that they forget too. Most of the time, though, I don’t really care if they do or not. I have other more pressing matters to deal with, you see.
But after they leave, I realize that the emptiness I am constantly trying to overcome, to fill, has never really left. And when I look at the umbrella, I am reminded that in all honesty, things really haven’t changed. Although the present is somewhat bearable, it is tomorrow that I am still afraid of.
But enough of my pseudo-intellectual conundrums. I am anxious to relive the once glorious past that was, literally, in another country. The center of the world—New York City—in the fabulous US of A. The city where I lived for most of my adult life, where outwardly I led a life that many envied, a so-called ‘successful’ life with a coveted apartment in Manhattan, a swanky car and a happening job in IT.
Oddly enough though, despite all its glory, I was sick of NYC. It wasn’t just September 11, it was everything. I was tired of everything… and everyone. Life had become monotonous and uninspiring; it had become a negative sort of affair, filled with the same people who talked about the same things at the same places over the same drinks.
And the celestial city, which I called home, and loved more than life itself was beginning to gnaw rabidly at my insides, making me even more cynical. I just wanted to run away.
But instead of just thinking about escaping, I actually decided to leave. I decided to end a life. Mine. My life in New York. I decided to move. Far, far away. Where there would be no more reminders of the past, where the shadows of yesterday would not brim into today, where I could start anew, forget the mistakes I made, and attempt to take control of my life instead of being a mere spectator.
Surprisingly, ending a life wasn’t as difficult as I had thought. Perhaps death isn’t as difficult as you’d imagine, and perhaps it is better to end it by yourself, rather than having death thrust upon you. Of course, there was the matter of fond farewells to deal with. Saying goodbye wasn’t hard I realized—all you had to do was follow some fake hugs and kisses with comments such as, “We’ll stay in touch,” the insincere, “Of course I will come back…” and even, “I’ll always love you.”
The most difficult aspect of ending my life was getting rid of the all the things I had accumulated in the process of staying true to the good old materialistic American way of life. Being computer savvy—hey, I was an IT yuppie after all—I took pictures of my many belongings and placed them on Craig’s list in order to sell them.
Within a week, most of the possessions I had accumulated, each of which I had bought with careful thought and consideration, was sold. Gone. Almost as if they had never existed. Or been part of my life. On the upside, I managed to raise a decent amount of cash. Only the smaller television, and some knick-knacks remained.
That evening, it was a Friday I think, the phone rang as I was about to hit the shower. I instantly figured it wasn’t anyone I knew by the thick, Indian accent, one that stressed on the T’s and D’s and lacked the V’s. (“Do you hawe a telewision for sale?”)
I made an appointment for 7pm that same evening (I had a drinks thing at 8), explained the directions to my house, and figured I had a deal.
Seven-thirty and no one in sight. Damn Indians, I thought. Never on time. That’s why South Asians have such a bad name—we can’t ever be punctual. I peered outside the window, as if willing the man in question to appear instantaneously.
It looked like it was drizzling outside, a sort of unexpected, soothing shower, when you can tell that summer is flirting with you, telling you that spring, with its constant showers is about to leave, but not without letting you down many a time.
I poured myself a stiff drink, lit a cigarette and figured I’d wait another ten minutes. Just in case the curry smelling fool would arrive. I needed that TV out, and money in my pocket so I could splurge at a bar tonight, and maybe even get a hit of X in the bargain if I could manage it.
Just then there was a knock on the door. God! Can’t the guy see the damned doorbell? Damn desis. I chugged down the drink…whoa…and opened the door.
I had been mistaken, it wasn’t just a drizzle; it had been pouring, judging by the way the street looked. Hues of pink sprawled across the blue sky, and the golden rays of the setting sun seeped through the clouds. The rain had ended, leaving behind pools of water on the ground, which mirrored the sky’s cerulean shades.
In front of me stood two creatures, dressed in cheap, transparent raincoats, sharing an umbrella, looking like something even the dingiest cat wouldn’t have dragged in. Not even in one of its nine lives.
The man was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt that was tucked in a little oddly, showing off a bit of a paunch, while his much younger sidekick sported a well-used shalwar-kameez. Her hair was oiled and tied in a tight plait and she was sporting what looked second-hand trainers. They were holding hands but as soon as I glanced at them, they pulled away, looking as if they had been engaging in a public orgy.
“Yes,” I barked. “You here to see the TV?”
“Yes,” smiled the man, showing off his white teeth.
“You’re late. I’ve been waiting for more than an hour.”
The woman apologized.
“We are sorry we are late, but the bus got delayed.” Her accent was less pronounced than her man-friend’s, although she spoke in a rather halting, singsong manner.
Why didn’t you just get a friggin’ cab? Don’t you think I have anything better to do than wait for two curry-smelling Indians who will probably not even buy the damned TV ’cause they are so friggin’ cheap? I wanted to say.
But thankfully, for once, I stopped myself in time. Before I said things I would have regretted later. Before I said things that I couldn’t possibly take back, things I would have to live with for the rest of my life.
I walked towards the lounge, and could hear the cheap rubber soles of their shoes squeaking on my well-polished wooden floors.
“Here’s the TV,” I said loudly, pointing towards the object in question, as if assuming that the duo was dim-witted and wouldn’t be able to identify it themselves. “It’s in mint condition.”
“Does it have a remot
e control sir?” asked the man. Ah, he’s not all that dense after all. What’s with the sir, anyway? Should I ask him to wipe my shoes now?
“Yeah. Somewhere. There’s so much shit here. I’ll look for it if you give me a second.”
Both of them literally died on the spot, especially the woman, as I said shit. I rolled my eyes and ignored their shudders, and started looking around for the damned remote control. Miraculously, I had actually put it in its place, on the center table. Turning the TV on, I passed the remote to the woman. Unfortunately, the TV turned on to show the last channel I viewed, which happened to be the Playboy channel. The woman turned crimson, while the man, half-tempted to watch, merely averted his gaze.
For some reason, even I felt a little uncomfortable, and swiftly snatched back the remote and changed the channel to something more respectable. I was so uncomfortable, that when they asked me how much the TV would cost, I quoted a lower price than planned.
“Are you okay with the pricing?” I asked. Almost instinctively, they looked at each other. Apparently they communicated without words.
“Yes, yes, we want it,” they said in unison.
“I can call my friend now and he can pick it up if that’s okay,” said the man.
“That’s fine. But I have to go out soon; can he hurry up? Or will he be late as well?”
“No, no, let me call him now. Can I use your phone?” (No cell phone, I noticed).
I was tempted to point out the grammatical error in the sentence he had uttered, but managed to restrain myself and pointed towards the cordless.
He called his friend, murmured something quickly in a language I didn’t understand, and then told me his friend would be there in ten minutes. (“He works nearby only, and he has a big car.”)
Love Across Borders Page 9