Translated from the Gibberish

by Anosh Irani

  Abdul always played under a fake name. Ever since the British Columbia Mainland League had started uploading the scores online, Abdul did not want to take any chances about being discovered. Not that the immigration authorities had the time to monitor cricket websites, but you never knew. Today he was Manny, short for Manpreet. The real Manny was on a mining contract in Calgary, and when he returned, Abdul would use another player’s name. Over the years, the opposition had discovered this ruse, but they didn’t care—it was an unspoken rule that one immigrant would never tell on another. They understood each other’s pain all too well.

  Today, Abdul and Randy batted effortlessly. Both the opening bowlers, although fast, were ineffective against them.

  “We make good partners,” said Randy. “See?”

  There was no doubt about it. They were creaming the bowlers, and the captain of the bowling side had become frustrated. He made comments about how Randy only had one shot to offer, a cross-batted swing, and that if it weren’t for Randy’s advanced age, his own team would have felt free to bowl much faster—anything to piss Randy off, and it was working. Abdul could see that Randy was turning red and would burst any second.

  “Hey, Randy,” the captain said. “How come you’re so fat?”

  “Because each time I bonk your wife, she feeds me a biscuit,” Randy replied.

  All hell broke loose. The captain abused Randy; Randy refused to back down, and the umpires had to intervene.

  “That prick,” said Randy.

  “No worry,” said Abdul. “I show him.”

  Sure enough, the next over, the captain decided to bowl, to try his hand at getting Randy and Abdul out.

  “I’ll tell you what,” Randy told Abdul. “If you hit this guy out of the ground, I’ll give you a raise.”

  “I don’t know my salary yet,” laughed Abdul. “So how I know if raise?”

  “Just humiliate him. Make him long for his mommy.”

  “I do for you, man,” said Abdul. He looked at the mosque, closed his eyes, and said a quick prayer.

  When the next ball came at him, Abdul stepped out of his crease and lofted it high into the air. It took off into the stratosphere. He watched as it cleared the net that had been placed across one end of the grounds. The city had received complaints about cricket balls landing on the roofs of the homes that lined that end, so the club had put up the net, fifty feet high, across that side of the field.

  No one had cleared the net before, and every player on the field stood still, following Abdul’s ball as it soared over the net. Abdul allowed himself a brief smile, which vanished when he heard someone scream. It was an elderly woman working in her garden behind one of the homes.

  “Shit!” said Abdul.

  He bolted across the field towards the woman, Randy close behind. It took them a couple of minutes to go around the netting. When they reached the garden, the woman was holding the ball in her hand. Abdul was relieved to see that she wasn’t hurt. But she was angry.

  “What is wrong with you people?” she shouted.

  “I…I so sorry…” said Abdul.

  “This could have killed me!” the woman said. She was pressing the ball in an effort to demonstrate how rock-hard it was, but she didn’t need to. Abdul knew. And he suddenly understood that she wasn’t angry; she was terrified. If that ball had hit her head, it would have been the end for her. She was shaking as some of the players from the fielding team gathered behind him, intending to make sure she was okay. But the woman became more and more uncomfortable, and Abdul saw what she was seeing: all these men, bald men, hairy men, men with goatees and spiky hair, descending upon her garden, casting a shadow on her flowers, and the men were all brown and she was white.

  Abdul turned to Randy and the others.

  “She scared…” he said. “You go, please…I speak.”

  “We need that ball,” whispered the captain. “Make sure you get the ball back.”

  “This is too much!” the woman said, her voice quavering. “Every summer!”

  “I…my mistake…” Abdul said. The woman was panting now, and so was he—he had run all the way to her garden, and he too was pumped with fear.

  Just as he was about to apologize further, the front door opened and a boy of about fourteen stood before him. Abdul felt relief. He could apologize to the boy instead of scaring this elderly woman even more.

  “Buddy,” he said as he walked towards the boy. “I so sorry, I hit ball in garden…”

  “Don’t go near him,” said the woman sharply.

  “Is okay…” said Abdul. “I just say sorry.”

  But as soon as he was a couple of feet from the boy, the boy began to scream and hit his head against the front door. Abdul became extremely aware of his cricket gear; here he was wearing cricket pads and gloves, and he had a bat in his hand. Was the bat scaring the kid? He backed away and began retracing his steps. The woman had moved towards the boy and was trying to calm him down.

  By the time Abdul got back to the field, some of the players were lying on the grass, seemingly unperturbed by what had just happened. Perhaps nothing had happened, Abdul told himself. But if nothing had happened, why were his nerves so jangled? His cricket gear suddenly felt so heavy. He needed a glass of water, some sugar perhaps.

  “Did you get the ball?” asked Randy.

  Abdul had forgotten the ball. Or maybe he hadn’t. He imagined the ball landing on the woman’s head, cracking her skull, and her lying there on the soft green grass, or on a bed of yellow flowers and dark-red blood. The sun beat down on him, and he felt dizzy. As he walked towards the clubhouse, the smoke from the barbecue grill entered his nostrils, making him even more lightheaded.

  “Great shot, Abdul,” said someone. “That was a monster six!”

  He shook his head, and wondered if anyone could see that his hands were shaking too.

  * * *

  —

  THE NEXT DAY, ABDUL WAS WOKEN from sleep by a loud banging on the door. He had been dreaming about the boy in the garden, and for a moment he thought it was this boy who was banging his head on the door. But it was Qadir Bhai. Abdul had overslept.

  Without eating breakfast, Abdul got to work. To appease Qadir Bhai, he cooked a new dish—a dish he had promised himself he would never cook for Qadir Bhai because it was one his own father used to make for him. But now he wanted to start his week with something lovely, something kind, so he made egg bhurji with mutton. Qadir Bhai loved the concoction so much, he asked Abdul to serve it in the restaurant.

  The next day, instead of allowing Abdul to bask in the glory of this new offering, Qadir Bhai accepted the compliments of the customers with a gracious nod, as though he had been finessing the bhurji for months and had finally perfected it. Abdul saw Qadir Bhai’s bloated ego, his good mood, and decided to ask his question.

  “Qadir Bhai,” he said. “Just wondering if there is any news on my visa.”

  “You know how it is,” Qadir Bhai replied. Then he lowered his head and spoke softly in Hindi. The two of them always conversed in Hindi—especially Qadir Bhai when delivering bad news and lies. “You’ll have to wait for a few more months.”

  “But it’s been so long,” said Abdul. “Five years.”

  “I know,” said Qadir Bhai. “I have to find a new lawyer, you see. My lawyer passed away—he was my friend, a fellow Muslim, who had offered to do this job for free, but his son is not cut from the same cloth. His son wants his full fee. Five thousand dollars.”

  “Five thousand?”

  “What can I say? These young people have no souls…”

  Perhaps you are talking about your own son, thought Abdul. How badly he wanted to say it aloud.

  “Give me one more year,” said Qadir Bhai. “I will sort things out.”

  “If you give me a loan, I will work my way through it, I swear. Please, Qadir Bhai. I just want to be legal here. I want to go back to Bombay, meet my brother, and come back here. As resident of Canada, not as a thief
. I feel like a thief. Pay the lawyer and I will work off the debt. Please!”

  “Where will I get the money from? The restaurant is not doing well. And whatever money I earn, some of it I send for your brother’s education. And I pay you as well…”

  “You pay me minimum wage,” said Abdul. “Sometimes less.”

  “Abdul, times are tough. Please have faith in Allah. If Allah wills it, it will happen.”

  Perhaps Allah wants you to sell your Audi. Perhaps Allah wants you to stop giving cash to that worthless son of yours. Perhaps Allah wants you to keep your word.

  Abdul said none of this, but he did not back down. He stood there in silence, hoping to make Qadir Bhai uncomfortable for bringing Allah into this. But instead, Qadir Bhai leaned on Allah even more.

  “Allah will find a way,” he said.

  Yes, thought Abdul. Allah will find a way. Perhaps he already has.

  That night, as he lay in bed, the light of his cellphone was the only thing that shone in his tiny room. It shone with hope, with two simple words emitting fluorescence that could have lit a stadium.

  I in, he wrote to Randy.

  He stared at the screen for a long time. Then he pressed Send.

  When Sunday came, and Abdul and Randy were batting again, Abdul could barely contain his joy. On the way to the ground Randy had called his lawyer on the speakerphone, and this lawyer had sounded experienced and professional, not a bullshit smooth talker like Qadir Bhai.

  “You’re batting differently today,” said Randy, between overs.

  He was right. Abdul had no need to hit the ball hard. His timing was superb, he had a silken touch. He wanted to tell Randy it was all thanks to him. He could breathe now, he was more relaxed. Even his hamstrings, which were always tight from standing for long hours at work, weren’t as taut. They were like the strings of a musical instrument. If you ran your fingers along them, sweetness would be heard.

  A bowler, about to come in and bowl a fast one at Abdul, had stopped halfway through his run up, and was staring at something behind Abdul. When Abdul turned to look, he saw two cops walking towards the cricket pitch. One man, one woman.

  The elderly lady from the week before stood near the cop car.

  With each step the cops took, the grass became more still and quiet.

  “Excuse me,” said the male cop to Abdul. “Are you the gentleman who hit the ball into that lady’s garden?”

  Abdul struggled to speak; he knew a simple yes would do, but there was a lump in his throat. Nothing came out.

  Randy came to his rescue. “Yes, officer,” he said. “It was a mistake.”

  “Please step back,” said the female officer. As she said this, she held her arm out, and Randy stopped in his tracks. Abdul felt cold; he began to shake.

  “I’m asking you,” said the male officer to Abdul. “Was it you?”

  Abdul nodded.

  “What’s your name?”

  This was the hardest question he had ever been asked. Last week he had been Manny, but Manny was back from Calgary. This week he was Harry, for Harpreet. But he wasn’t Harry, either.

  “Sir, I asked you a question,” said the cop.

  “I…sorry,” said Abdul. “It went by mistake. Over net…”

  “I asked you your name.”

  “My name…my name Abdul,” he said.

  “Abdul what? What’s your full name?”

  “Abdul Siddiqui.”

  “Did you threaten that lady’s grandson?”

  “Yes,” said Abdul. “I sorry…”

  “You did threaten him?”

  “Officer,” said Randy. “He’s misunderstood. His English isn’t—”

  “Please stand back,” said the female officer.

  “I no say anything,” said Abdul. “I only sorry!”

  “Calm down,” said the officer. “Did you raise your bat towards him?”

  “No,” said Abdul. “I bat in hand.”

  “Why did you carry your bat all the way to her home?”

  “My bat in hand,” he repeated. “My bat in hand!” He tried to calm himself down, but he felt as if he was sinking.

  “That boy had to get stitches in his head,” said the cop.

  “But he bang on door. He crazy!”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I no mean…”

  “Can I have some ID?” asked the cop.

  “No ID,” said Abdul. “ID home. I play cricket…”

  “So you don’t have ID? Where do you live?”

  Abdul thought of the fake home with the large door, and the tree that was full in summer and bald in winter.

  “Surrey,” he said, and rattled off Qadir Bhai’s home address. What else could he do? A fake address would be the worst thing at this point.

  “How long have you been in Canada?” asked the cop.

  “One month,” said Abdul.

  “Where are you from?”

  “Mumbai,” said Abdul. “I visiting uncle in Surrey. I go back India next week.”

  “So you’re visiting?”

  “Yes,” said Abdul. A hundred thoughts ran through his mind. He imagined himself being handcuffed and taken away in the back of the cop car. He had seen this done in the movies; he had seen it happening in Surrey as well, to some of the very people who ate at the Moon.

  “Where do you work?” asked the female officer.

  “In restaurant,” replied Abdul.

  The minute he said this, he knew he was gone. He could feel the colour drain from his face. He had been tricked. He had made the blunder of his life.

  “So you work here?” she asked.

  “No, no,” he said. “In Mumbai. I cook.”

  “I see.”

  “Sir, you’d better come with us,” said the male cop. “Just for some questioning.”

  “But I no do anything,” protested Abdul.

  “This way,” said the male cop. And Abdul knew it was best for him to do as asked. He had been a goner the moment the cops stepped onto the field. Whom did he think he was fooling? No one would come to his rescue. Qadir Bhai would simply deny everything.

  When Abdul glanced at Randy, he saw the disappointment in Randy’s eyes.

  “I being kept here,” he said softly. “I forced to work.”

  He could no longer look at Randy. He felt his own shame dripping down his face onto the grass, making it wet and heavy.

  He started walking towards the cop car. The old woman was nowhere to be seen. She was a vindictive piece of shit, he thought wearily. He had done nothing wrong.

  “I need help,” he told the male cop. “I want to go back India. Please help.”

  But the cops were silent as they walked beside him. When Abdul reached the edge of the grass, he bent down and took his cricket pads off. Then his gloves. But he held on to his bat for a moment. Then, a second later, he accepted that even the bat was of no use. It needed to be shed. He left it on the ground.

  He wasn’t shaking anymore, but he felt a strange chattering in his mouth. It was his teeth, chattering at enormous speed. He felt himself gnawing at something; it was a strange feeling, but altogether familiar as well. As he sat in the back of the cop car, he felt smaller and smaller, greyer and greyer. His brown skin was turning into grey wool. He felt strong. He felt he could eat through metal, through Qadir Bhai’s Audi. Then he felt the taste of hard paper in his mouth. He could feel Qadir Bhai’s passport between his teeth, a Canadian delicacy that he was nibbling on, much hotter than the coffee at Tim Hortons, more mouth-watering than any deal Fido could offer. He nibbled at it with great relief, then spoke to the cops who were listening so beautifully, more than any white person had ever listened to him, and he could feel the passport turning into a different shape, the edges tearing, as though the outline of a new country was being formed, a country for traitors like Qadir Bhai, where rats like Abdul were in charge, ensuring that promises made were promises kept, and that when dreams were offered to people, a thousand rats would start singing,
nibbling, gnawing in warning, and shame would drip down the jowls of men like Qadir Bhai, just as Abdul’s shame had seeped into a country that could have been his.

  * * *

  Raju had written down the names of the people most likely to be responsible, in the event of his death. There was Arjun the elephant trainer, Tariq the trapezist, Mohan Drummer, and Mr. Patil, who was already dead, although that did not deter Raju from listing him. Raju could not afford a bank lock-box, or any such luxury, so he had decided to hand this list to the one person he trusted: his friend Ghulam Ali, the ice-gola man.

  He made this decision in the mid-afternoon, when Ghulam Ali was at his busiest, but Raju did not care. He was determined to hand these names to his friend immediately. These were ominous times. When he had woken up that morning in his tent, he’d felt a shiver in his tailbone. He had last experienced a similar feeling two years ago, and later that day an acrobat had fallen and fractured his skull. The sound was unforgettable—crunchy but rock-solid. He cringed at the memory as he joined Ghulam Ali outside the gates of Johnny’s Circus.

  Ghulam Ali never smiled, except when he was making his delicious ice-golas. With his giant palm he would crush bits of ice against a thin stick and pour colourful syrup all over it: so red it looked like blood, so green it put grass to shame, so blue a thousand ink bottles could never match its depth. How he perfected these colours was his secret, and it had made him the most sought-after gola man in all of Byculla. For the past three months, ever since the circus had set up on the school grounds, Ghulam Ali’s handcart had been surrounded by hordes of people—children, old men, women in burkas, handcart pullers, all seeking relief from the heat. A cheap remedy of coloured syrup and ice, that’s all it took to soothe tongues and bodies.

  But fame was not what motivated Ghulam Ali. His delight came from watching children slurp and bite with complete abandon. As soon as the children were gone, the smile vanished from his face and he took on the grimness of a security guard.