by Dohra Ahmad
We drove on in silence for maybe twenty minutes. Vulk lit another cigar. I watched him through my lowered lashes, puffing away, hunched over the wheel. Puff. Stink. Puff. Stink. How much farther could it be? Then there was a crunching of gravel under the wheels, and with one last violent lurch the mafia-machine came to a halt. I opened my eyes. We had pulled up in front of a pretty steep-roofed farmhouse set behind a summery garden where there were chairs and tables set out on the lawn that sloped down to a shallow glassy river. Just like England is supposed to be. Now at last, I thought, there will be normal people; they will talk to me in English; they will give me tea.
But they didn’t. Instead, a pudgy red-faced man wearing dirty clothes and rubber boots came out of the house—the farmer, I guessed—and he helped me out of Vulk’s vehicle, mumbling something I couldn’t understand, but it was obviously not an invitation to tea. He looked me up and down in that same rude way, as though I were a horse he’d just bought. Then he and Vulk muttered to each other, too fast for me to follow, and exchanged envelopes.
“Bye-bye, little flovver,” Vulk said, with that chip-fat smile. “Ve meet again. Maybe ve mekka possibility?”
“Maybe.”
I knew it was the wrong thing to say, but by then I was just desperate to get away.
The farmer shoved my bag into his Land Rover and then he shoved me in too, giving my behind a good feel with his hand as he did so, which was quite unnecessary. He only had to ask and I would have climbed in by myself.
“I’ll take you straight out to the field,” he said, as we rattled along narrow winding lanes. “You can start picking this afternoon.”
After some five kilometers, the Land Rover swung in through the gate, and I felt a rush of relief as at last I planted my feet on firm ground. The first thing I noticed was the light—the dazzling salty light dancing on the sunny field, the ripening strawberries, the little rounded trailer perched up on the hill and the oblong boxy trailer down in the corner of the field, the woods beyond, and the long, curving horizon, and I smiled to myself. So this is England.
DEEPAK UNNIKRISHNAN
From
TEMPORARY PEOPLE
CHABTER THREE: PRAVASIS
Expat. Worker.
Guest. Worker.
Guest Worker. Worker.
Foreigner. Worker.
Non-resident. Worker.
Non-citizens. Workers.
Workers. Visa.
People. Visas.
Workers. Worker.
A million. More.
Homeless. Visiting.
Residing. Born.
Brought. Arrived.
Acclimatizing. Homesick.
Lovelorn. Giddy.
Worker. Workers.
Tailor. Solderer.
Chauffeur. Maid.
Oil Man. Nurse.
Typist. Historian.
Shopkeeper. Truck driver.
Watchman. Gardener.
Secretary. Pilot.
Smuggler. Hooker.
Tea boy. Mistress.
Temporary. People.
Illegal. People.
Ephemeral. People.
Gone. People.
Deported. Left.
More. Arriving.
CHABTER FOUR: PRAVASIS?
Tailor. Hooker. Horse Looker. Maid. Camel Rider. Historian. Nurse. Oil Man. Shopkeeper. Chauffeur. Watchman. Porrota Maker. Secretary. Gardener. Smuggler. Solderer. Tea Boy. Mistress. Newspaper Walla. Truck Driver. Storekeeper. Manager. Computer Person. AC Repairman. Claark. TV Mechanic. Caar Mechanic. Bus Driver. Kadakaran. Accountant. Housewife. First Wife. Ex-wife. Barber. Delivery Boy. Electrician. Plumber. Security Guard. Housemaid. Nanny. Schoolteacher. Ayah. Perfume Seller. Philanderer. Husband. Bar Man. Bar Girl. Carpet Seller. Vet. Doc. Mr. Mrs. Sycophant. Laborer. Taxi Driver. Launderer. Money Lender. Murderer. Junk Dealer. Road Cleaner. Brick Layer. Bread Maker. Butcher. Teacher. Preacher. Fotographer. Stair Washer. Window Cleaner. Technician. Manager Person. Petro Lobbyist. Typist. Delivery Boy. Present Wrapper. Pill Pusher. Drug Pusher. Travel Agent. Bellhop. Marketing Man. Face Model. Administrator. Pet Groomer. Pilot. DJ. RJ. VJ. Groom. Bride. Lorry Driver. Shopping-Mall Cashier. Carpet Seller. Hitman. Junkie. Flunkie. Fishmonger. Floor Sweeper. Cement Mixer. Gas Man. Fixer. Usher. Waiter. Pizza Maker. Cook. Dish Washer. Valet. Robber. Ambulance Driver. Blood Donor. Driving Teacher. Computer Expert. Con Man. Checkout Girl. Language Translator. Receptionist. Carpenter. Furniture Repairman. Morgue Cleaner. Jeweler. Murderess. Business Lady. Mullah. Father. Optimist. Futurist. Golf Expert. Tennis Coach. Life Guard. Amusement-Park-Ride Operator. Costumer. Marketing Strategist. Water Expert. Desalination Consultant. Game-Park Investor. Gambler. Diamond Dealer. Interior Decorator. Diplomat. Doorman. Mercenary. Crane Operator. Kappalandi Vendor. Ship Boy. Pucchakari Seller. Supermarket Shelf Stocker. Pipe Fitter. Stone Mason. Knife Sharpener. Imported-Fruit Stowaway. Duty Free Employee. Paper Editor. Caar Washer. Forklift Driver. Video-Shooter. Organ Donor. Cadaver. Music Teacher. Tree Planter. Maalish Man. Chai Maker. Kaapi Stirrer. Lentil Seller. Carpet Cleaner. Table Wiper. Garbage Man. Watch Repairer. Kennel Sweeper. Shawarma Slicer. Assistant Person. Peon. Iron Man. Forger. Mithai Maker. Veed Builder. Cobbler. Food Supplier. Wall Painter. Bar Dancer. Bra Salesman. Bank Teller. Telephone Lineman. Dredger. Assembly-Line Worker. Toy Maker. Welder. Moocher. Drifter. Breadwinner. Supermarket Bagger. Fruit Hawker. Chicken Decapitator. Exterminator. Highway Maker. Building Builder. Saleslady. Trolley Boy. Gold-Shop Employee. Department-Store Mascot. Camera Guy. Ladies Hairdresser. Pandit. Nun. Perfume Seller. Laundry Person. Wall Painter. Factory Supervisor. Machinist. Glass Wiper. Grass Mower. Plant Waterer. Warehouse Protector. Ambulance Driver. Trash Picker. Camp Foreman. Cycle Mechanic. Brick Layer. Raffle Seller. Currency Exchanger. Loan Shark. Manicurist. Pedicurist. Cafeteria Worker. Burger Maker. Masseur. Masseuse. Florist. Dentist. Pool Cleaner. Water-Slide Inspector. Hostess. Hotel Concierge. Immigration Attorney. Mortician. Sandwich Maker. Disco Bouncer. Crows. Continental Cook. VCD Dealer. Letter Writer. Internet Explainer. Poster Painter. Flower Potter. Stable Boy. Electrician. Mont Blanc Salesman. Helicopter Pilot. Seamstress. Trouser Stocker. Chappal Hawker. Imported-Caar-Tyre Fixer. Loan Signer. Debt Defaulter. Escaper. Cash Hoarder. Money Spender. Rent Borrower. Suicider. Raffle Winner. Breadloser. Roti Roller. Poori Fryer. Bread Kneader. Bed Maker. Tongue Speaker. Coffin Specialist. Coffee Pourer. Ice-Cream Server. Bootlegger. Shoe Shiner. Front Door Greeter. Gym Instructor. Bookshop Owner. Paper Shredder. Spice Dealer. Fireworks Specialist. Wet Nurse. Elevator Repairman. Fountain Specialist. Scrap Dealer. Dog Groomer. Tree Tender. Farm Hand. Mehendi Putter. College Professor. Chartered Accountant. Marriage Broker. Fact Checker. Customer-Service Representative. Tiler. Van Driver. Mover. Nationalist. Atheist. Fundamentalist. Jingoist. Scrap Collector. Garment Seller. Squeegee Wielder. Porno Dealer. Plant Worker. Kitchen Assistant. House Liver. Camp Resider. Homeless. Jobless. Hopeless. Clueless. Content. Festival Consultant. Starlet. Smithy. Interior Designer. Electronics Salesman. Stadium Builder. Metro Maker. Electrician. Dressmaker. Food-Court Vendor. Gas Worker. Rig Worker. Driller. Miller. Killer. Skyscraper Specialist. Engineer. Mechanical Engineer. Beautician. Ladies Nurse. Ad Man. Bachelor. Stringer. Football Coach. Football Player. Boat Hand. Cutlery Representative. Cargo Hauler. Museum Director. Sculpture Mover. Bulldozer Operator. Earth Digger. Stone Breaker. Foundation Putter. Infrastructure Planner. Rule Follower. House Builder. Camp Builder. Tube-Light Installer. Helmet Wearer. Jumpsuit Sporter. Globetrotter. Daydreamer. City Maker. Country Maker. Place Builder. Laborer. Cog. Cog? Cog.
CHABTER NINE: NALINAKSHI
My name is Nalinakshi. I am from Nadavaramba, Thrissur. Yesterday, I turned eighty. My husband was fifty-eight when he passed. My sisters are in their sixties. They live with their grandkids and daughters-in-law. I also have a boy, my only son, Haridas Menon, my Hari. E
ver since Hari could crawl, I knew he’d be a wanderer, destined to be a pravasi. And you know what, I was right. As soon as he started to walk, he walked his skinny ass all the way to Dubai. I suppose you’re too young to understand what pravasi means, young man, what it truly means. Maybe that’s why you singled me out for your research. Whatever comes, speak into the recorder, you said. Maybe I’ve got the look of an old crone with wisdom to spare. And you know what, you’re right, I feel like I’m going to be talkative in my eighties. So let me tell you what pravasi means, but when my voice gets played back to your teachers, tell them Nalinakshi was of sound state and mind as she said her piece. Not a trace of bitterness, not an ounce of pity.
* * *
—
Pravasi means foreigner, outsider. Immigrant, worker. Pravasi means you’ve left your native place. Pravasi means you’ll have regrets. You’ll want money, then more money. You’ll want one house with European shitters. And one car, one scooter. Pravasi means you’ve left your loved ones because you’re young, ambitious, filled with confidence that you’ll be back some day, and you probably will. For a few weeks every year, you’ll return for vacations, but mind you, you return older. Blacker. News hungry. Before you’ve had time to adjust to power cuts and potholes, like they had in the old days when phones were luxuries or glued to walls, someone’s going to tell you so-and-so died. And it’ll be a shock, because you didn’t know. And when you go to this person’s house to pay your respects, you’ll discover someone else has died. And as you continue to see people you know you’re required to see, you’ll hear about more dead people. Or ailments. Or needs. Then you’ll see the new people, fat babies or wives or husbands. And you’ll look at what they’ve got. Inevitably, you’ll think about your own life, the choices you made. How far you’ve come, if paying for those shitters was worth it. And by the time you’ve done the math in your head, everything you’ve missed, what’s been gained, you’ll come to realize what the word pravasi really means: absence. That’s what it means, absence. When you write your book, address my Hari personally, and tell my beautiful, beautiful boy, tell my son that’s what it’s always meant: absence.
DJAMILA IBRAHIM
HEADING SOMEWHERE
Omar types domestic workers Syria and waits for the page to load. Images swirl in his mind like a gutted photo album set to the wind: his old girlfriend Sara, his childhood friends Meseret and Naima, another girl or two whose names he can’t remember. Young women who’d left Addis Ababa to work as maids in Saudi Arabia, Syria, and elsewhere, light on luggage and high on anticipation for a better life. Words chase these images like guided missiles—isolation, beating, rape, and murder (disguised as suicide)—but Omar doesn’t want to think about these things right now. He wills his mind in another direction: Sara wading through Damascus’s narrow, winding streets, past busy, dusty souks—a landscape he only knows from pictures he’d googled recently—to find a way out of Syria before civil war engulfs the city.
It’s only 4:15 p.m. but the snow cloaking the quiet Ottawa neighbourhood is already turning to soft indigo. Omar hopes to find a lead into Sara’s whereabouts or at least a contact number before his wife, Marianne, comes home from work in an hour.
The rebels have taken control of Douma, a city only ten kilometers away from Damascus, he’d heard announced on the news last night.
Sara might already be in one of the NGOs’ makeshift shelters, waiting for a flight home. If only Ethiopia had an embassy in Syria . . . or maybe she’s on her way to the Ethiopian consulate in Beirut. He keeps speculating, as he’s been doing for the last two days, ever since Sara’s mother called from Addis Ababa to ask him for help in getting her daughter out of Damascus.
When he was little, back in Addis Ababa, whenever he and his friends heard screams coming from the police station adjacent to their compound, they’d rush to stack up boxes, tires, or any piece of trash solid enough to stand on against the concrete wall separating the compound from the station so they could glimpse whomever was being interrogated that day. Sara would already be there beside him, her eyes sparkling eagerly. Together, they’d dare other children to join them. Serious interrogations were done behind closed doors so only screams and echoes of unintelligible words could be heard, but the kids would line up beside each other anyway, stand on tiptoe and crane their little heads over the wall, hoping to see some poor, petty criminal writhe and scream on the dusty court surrounded by police officers beating on him with batons and straps. Sometimes, an officer would catch them watching and threaten to lock them up, wagging a finger and cursing, or even flinging rocks at them. They’d all run away, clumsily tripping over their cobbled-together stands, down dirt paths riddled with potholes and sharp rocks half-buried in the soil, to their homes. Some would be on the verge of tears by the time they stopped, but not Sara. She would laugh, her mischievous eyes wild with exhilaration. Omar loved and hated that about her. He admired her fearlessness and yet lived in constant worry that in the eyes of their peers, she, a girl, might one day prove to be the braver of the two.
This childhood memory melts into a sadness in Omar’s gut. He shakes his melancholy away, opens a link, and scans through the news:
We heard gunfire and we saw black smoke behind the buildings but our employer told us there was a celebration at the army barracks.
We wanted to return home but our employers left the country and we were locked inside their house.
Stranded migrant workers should contact their embassies or the International Organization for Migration (IOM) for repatriation assistance . . .
He spots a link to the IOM and learns they have an office in Damascus. He frantically clicks and clicks again until he finds their contact information. On a piece of paper he writes down the IOM’s number, under the one Sara’s mother had given him to reach her daughter at her employers’ house. He adds the Ethiopian Consulate’s number in Beirut to the list. He opens another link or two, then gives up. The news is too depressing to continue reading. He tucks the piece of paper in his shirt pocket. He’ll call early tomorrow morning. It’ll be afternoon in that part of the world by then. He’ll also try Sara’s employers’ house again. He closes his laptop, picks up his winter coat from the hallway closet, closes the front door behind him, and heads to the grocery store a few blocks away.
* * *
—
Holding the corner post for balance, Sara climbs onto the patio chair. She wraps the bedsheet she’s tied to the ledge like a rope around her arm and slowly climbs over her employers’ second-floor balcony and down to the quiet street below. Unlike her Filipina neighbour who ran to her government’s embassy in the city, Sara had to find a way out of Damascus and into Beirut where she could seek help from the Ethiopian consulate. A metre or so before her feet touch the ground, she loses her grip and falls on the asphalt. She gets up quickly, adjusts the duffle bag on her back, and looks up toward the house. The lights have not been turned on. She takes a deep breath and searches the dark street for the ride Mohamed, her employers’ gatekeeper, had arranged for her. She spots an old van a few metres away. Its brake lights flash twice, as agreed upon. She walks toward it as fast as she can without running.
“Get in the back,” the driver says from the half-open window before Sara has a chance to make eye contact.
“Cover yourself with that blanket and keep your head down,” he orders with a rushed voice.
Panic takes over as she slides the van door shut. What if this is a trap? She trusts Mohamed. He didn’t usually let her out of the compound alone for fear of losing his job but he was nice to her. And he has delivered on the promise of finding her someone who, for a fee, would help her. But this man could be taking her to the police station instead of the outskirts of Damascus where she’s supposed to meet another man who will take her to Beirut. She shakes the distressing thought away. There is nothing she can do now but hope for the best.
She squeezes her slim body betwe
en two rows of seats as an extra precaution. Mohamed had said the military was intensifying its operations in the city and that soldiers have been stopping and searching cars often these days. She rests her head on her duffle bag and covers herself with the blanket. The man starts the car and heads toward Jawaher Lal Nahro.
For a while, she listens through the van’s rattles for any changes in speed or signs of abnormal noise outside. Then, to ease her anxiety, she tries to think of happier times. Her earliest memory is of Ababa Tesfaye’s children’s TV show. Every Saturday at 6 p.m., she, Omar, and other neighbourhood kids would gather at the entrance of Emama Elsabet’s living-room-turned-bar. Wriggling around each other to get to the front of the line, they’d watch Emama Elsabet as she heaved herself onto a short wooden stool, removed the crocheted doily from the small TV on the shelf in the corner above the glass bar, and turned the dial to on. The children would then rush to get the best spot by the side door, from where they could watch their favourite show without disturbing Emama Elsabet’s customers. Some nights, there would be too many kids to fit in the tight space assigned to them. Fighting would erupt and the bar owner would shoo everybody home, cursing. On good days, though, they’d sit there, all senses glued to that TV, like seedlings turned to the sun, lost in Ababa Tesfaye’s tales of smart foxes and gullible little children, of greedy humans and misunderstood snakes. They’d sit on the chilly red-and-black-checkered cement tiles for an hour, their scrawny little bodies huddled together for warmth against the cold air coming through the open door. They’d return Ababa Tesfaye’s greetings, answer his questions, and cheer in unison when Good prevailed against Evil. Once in a while, Emama Elsabet or one of her waitresses would instruct them to keep quiet.