Translated from the Gibberish

by Anosh Irani

  Lalit zoomed off, his hands still unsteady. Noise was filling the van in the way the same reflections fill up a hall of mirrors—with sudden violence.

  Mohan turned the radio on, and a Hindi song with drumbeats and Afro-inspired chants added a new layer of sound. He knew this song; it was a remix of a nineties hit. He turned the volume to maximum until the speakers wobbled, but he did not care. Anything to not hear the life in the box.

  He glanced over at Tapas, who was scratching his arms and elbows like one possessed. After taking the guns from the mouse, the two of them had hidden in the bushes, until the security guards had finished surveying the zoo. Something must have bitten him there. Or maybe he was having an allergic reaction. Mohan noticed there was a thick rash around Tapas’s neck. Perhaps he needed some air, but the windows had to be up or Mr. Molt would spray the buildings of Mustafa Bazaar with his signature sound.

  “Call the boss,” said Mohan. “Tell him we’re on the way.”

  But Tapas wasn’t listening. He could only hear the drumbeats that were pumping in sync with his beating heart.

  “Tapas!”

  Tapas looked up at Mohan. He took his phone out and dialled. The name on the display said “Purohit.” If there ever was a time when divine intervention was needed, it was now. Anything to calm Mr. Molt. A prayer, a song, even a bullet to the chest.

  * * *

  —

  BAKUL WATCHED AS RESHMA SNATCHED the phone from the purohit’s hand. Tapas had been asked to call the purohit because Bakul did not want any calls on his own phone. The aftermath of this escapade would be worrisome, no doubt, and what the fuck was he supposed to do with the penguin once it was delivered to his home? How would he eventually separate it from Reshma?

  “Where are you?” Reshma asked.

  Tapas hadn’t been expecting Reshma to answer the phone. “Didi,” he said. “We are—”

  “Is he safe?”

  “Yes, he—”

  As if on cue, the bugger sent out his worst cry yet—a genuine yelp that also sounded fake, as if Mr. Molt was a squidgy toy for a dog, the kind of toy that let out a sound when squeezed extremely hard. Was Mr. Molt aware of what was happening to him, Tapas wondered? Did he know that he was being separated from his brothers and sisters? Did he think of them, feel for them? Did he know their names as Daisy and Flipper, or were they sounds to him, or faces and bodies, or smells?

  “Is he crying?” Reshma asked.

  “Yes,” said Tapas. “I think so.” They were on the highway now, zooming along. “We will be there in ten minutes,” he said.

  “Do you have FaceTime?” asked Reshma.

  “What?”

  “FaceTime! Do you—”

  “No, Didi, sorry…”

  “Put me on speakerphone.”

  “Why do you—”

  “Just do as I say!” she shouted. “And put the phone near his ear.”

  Tapas looked at Mohan for guidance; all he received was a nod. So Tapas placed the phone near the grille of the box. Molt was thrashing about, still entangled in the white cloth.

  But Reshma had started singing. It was a nursery song, a song about a fairy who puts little children to sleep by sprinkling dewdrops on them. Reshma had a lovely voice, she was a true singer, but Molt was far from soothed. He was singing now too, but about what Tapas could only guess. Perhaps it was a song about ice, about freezing water, about happiness in groups, in the wild, about the chilly sensation that crawled over his skin right now as the van hit a bump on the road.

  * * *

  —

  RESHMA COULD NOT SIT STILL. She could not stand, she could not lie down, she could not stop herself from pacing back and forth in the living room. Keshu was entering the elevator, he was coming up, thirty floors, towards her. What would he say to her? What should she say to him? Would it be a wordless exchange, a surge of love so strong between the two that it would create a magnetic force, and no thought would be needed?

  She looked at Bakul, who seemed equally excited, equally eager for the reunion. She had never seen him this way before and she took pleasure in his blossoming. The universe worked in the most mysterious ways indeed, she thought. Perhaps, after witnessing this miracle, Bakul would give up a life of crime. But what would he do? Maybe they could have one more child, son or daughter it did not matter. As long as her Keshu had someone to play with, to share with. Bakul was an only child, and it had made him cold and selfish at times. She had sisters, and she wanted Keshu to experience that feeling of warmth she had known growing up, sleeping alongside her sisters, all of them crafted from the same loving cells.

  “Bakul, quick,” she said. “We need to go to Keshu’s room.”

  “But we need to open the front door.”

  “Leave it open. They’re on the way anyway. I want him to walk into a familiar environment. He loves his room.”

  She went into her own bedroom and came back with three toques. She had last used them on the trip she and Bakul had taken to Simla. She also put on a puffy winter jacket, and gave Bakul his. To the purohit, she offered a gold shawl.

  She led the purohit and Bakul into Keshu’s room. Apart from a split AC, there were ten portable air conditioners blasting cold air into the room, ready for Keshu’s arrival. His toy train had been arranged in the middle of the room, and his cars and cycles were lined against the wall. She did not want too much clutter, so she had not yet unpacked his books and colouring pencils. She was so glad she had not thrown anything away. She just hadn’t had the strength to do it. But now she realized this had been a mother’s instinct. She had always known he was coming back.

  A thunderbolt went through her rejoicing heart when she heard the sound of the main door shutting. They were in. He was here.

  Bakul was joyous, she knew, even though he couldn’t handle the cold; he was behaving like a scared bird, his teeth chattering. She went over to the small alcove near the bookshelf and lit an oil lamp. She gave the purohit a glance and he began to chant his prayers. She wanted Keshu to enter his room with a sense of peace. The purohit also held a garland of marigolds and lilies in his hand, but this was for later. Too much too soon would unsettle the little one. There were yellow laddus too, in case he was hungry.

  Lalit opened the door to the room.

  Tapas and Mohan placed the box on the ground.

  Sounds came from the box, but they were the raspy sounds of tiredness. Bakul had his head down. Never before had his men seen him like this, staring at his feet. The priest sang his song with greater volume now, as though he wanted it to break through the ceiling, split the house in two, and shoot straight to the cosmos, where it would find forgiveness.

  Reshma positioned herself right in front of the grille.

  When Keshu waddled out of his cage, she burst into tears.

  * * *

  Majid remembered the English textbook for two reasons: one, it was thick and red; two, it used to land on his head time and again, thanks to Mr. Binny, the English teacher whose one look could make an army battalion stand at attention. “Majid, you seem to be amused by something,” Mr. Binny would frequently say for all to hear. “Look, Majid is dreaming again. Majid, would you care to share your dreams with the class?” But Majid had no dreams. Or what he thought of as a dream—the idea of leaving Bombay, especially Madanpura, the area that he lived in—was not something he wanted to share with Mr. Binny or with his classmates. His resulting silence was interpreted by Mr. Binny as an act of rebellion, and he would glare at Majid with those grey eyes and bring the English textbook down on Majid’s head with great force; behind that force was glee, that of a Christian attacking a Muslim. He held the English textbook with such reverence, and gripped it so hard, even the Bible came second. The English language was the Lord, the Saviour, and Mr. Binny its righteous prophet.

  But all of that was in the past. Mr. Binny was an old man now. The last Majid had heard, Mr. Binny could barely see and was living in a small room very close to the school. And eve
n though Mr. Binny had been Majid’s nemesis throughout his school life, Majid hardly thought about Mr. Binny anymore. Even today, his thoughts were not so much about Mr. Binny, but about that beautiful fat textbook that had once made his brain shake. What had been a weapon he’d needed to shield himself against was now a gentle fragrance in his memory. Perhaps this was a reflection of his own gratitude—a scent transferred straight from his heart to the pages of that massive treatise on English grammar, and—he hoped—to the writers of that manual: Wren and Martin. He had hated those two in school, had loathed their commas and semicolons, but today, as a new immigrant in Canada, he had to admit that without those two brothers, his English would have been non-existent, his chances of leaving Madanpura nil.

  Were they brothers? Were Wren and Martin first names, or last? Majid had always thought of them as brothers, but now, upon reflection, that seemed unlikely. Maybe the kinship was in their single-minded purpose. Yes, that was it. Mr. Binny used to remind the class at least once a week: “This book was not written for you. It was written for the offspring of the British officers stationed in India.” Then he would scan the class with a cartographer’s eye—although that was just an act. He knew exactly what he was looking for: Majid’s Islamic head. “Do you know what ‘offspring’ means?” he would demand. Of course, Majid didn’t. He was barely progressing from one year to the next by achieving the minimum passing mark, and if it hadn’t been for the kindness of some of his other teachers, he would have failed a grade or two. But in the sixth grade, Mr. Binny was his class teacher, responsible for overseeing his final mark, and Majid’s luck had run out. Mr. Binny did not like Majid’s ilk, and the fact that Majid lived in Madanpura seemed to be an affront to Mr. Binny. Majid understood why; he himself did not like the violence, the constant threats his father had to face, the way his older sister was teased by gang members, but he could do nothing about it.

  Madanpura was a colourful locality—with meat shops, leather stores, barbers, sweet shops, even a Salvation Army—but Mr. Binny saw just one colour: green. He had once whispered in Majid’s ear: “You should go back to Pakistan.” Majid had been so terrified that he hadn’t dared speak to anyone about it. He feared what would happen if anyone in Madanpura found out about Mr. Binny’s open hatred—especially his brother Isa, who would surely slice Mr. Binny’s throat with a knife, a beautiful comma from ear to neck. Mr. Binny’s hatred was partly thanks to Isa. A few years before, Isa had slapped Mr. Binny during the school march past. In front of the other teachers. Isa was thrown out of school, but it didn’t matter to him. By then, he was already involved in smuggling gold. This was in the eighties, when the only things that shone brighter than the strobe lights in Bombay’s discos were the gold bars that swam their way across the seas from the Middle East to India, lighting the water at night like illuminated sharks. These were holy bricks of gold because they were being used in religious wars, wars that the Muslims of Madanpura were ready to fight. But while the rest of Madanpura was gearing up for conflict with Hindus, Majid was being tormented by a Christian, and he could do nothing about it. Majid was a coward—unlike his brother, who had done something about the threats, the insults, the affronts to their sister. It also meant Isa had become a perpetrator—and in Majid’s mind, that made Mr. Binny right, it made him win.

  But today was not about Mr. Binny, Majid reminded himself. Today was about appreciating two brothers, Wren and Martin, who had taught him English, no matter how broken. And today was also the one-year anniversary of his sweet shop in Vancouver, one of the most beautiful cities in the world.

  Not only had Majid managed to fly away from Madanpura, he had successfully partnered with a Canadian man to start Almirah Sweets. A treasury of sweetness. That’s what the word “almirah” signified. It was borrowed from the Urdu word for cabinet, but for Majid it meant a treasure chest of the most delectable delicacies known to man, woman, or beast. Of course, he did not mention the beast part to anyone, but he’d had a dream the night before the shop opened in which a fantastical beast had towered above him, baring its teeth and fangs; Majid had offered it some mawa dessert, and the beast had eaten the delicacy gently, and had blessed Majid instead of harming him. Majid interpreted the dream as a sign that no matter how foreign these shores looked, no matter how threatening its people seemed, his sweets would bring them together. He was known in the neighbourhood as an affable man, liked by people of all nationalities, and he couldn’t wait to bring Fatima and his little daughter Ayesha here. They were stuck in Madanpura, but not for long. Allah had been kind to him. Not so much to his brother, Isa. After all the gold Isa had smuggled, he’d ended up getting shot. Isa now sat in a wheelchair all day, dreaming, the way Majid had once done in Mr. Binny’s class. Dreams of better days, of winding back the clock, of the gold that had turned his days black.

  But today wasn’t about Mr. Binny or Isa.

  Majid busied himself with what he considered to be his most important task: keeping the glass display case clean. If there were smudges on the glass, it meant there were fingerprints on the sweets; only his own hands had touched the sweets, brought them into this world. He was maniacal about cleaning the glass. He liked Mr. Clean for the job, trusted his blueness, the big shoulders of the man on the bottle. Mr. Clean understood that cleanliness was serious business. If there was one thing that irked Majid, it was customers pointing to a sweet and touching the glass. Why did they need to touch? Just point. But he never chided them. In fact, once a man had pointed to the sweets and tried to pick one up, his hand banging against the glass. The glass was so clean the man couldn’t even tell it was there. “Cleanliness is next to godliness.” That’s what Mr. Binny used to say. And even though he had been referring to Majid’s atrocious handwriting as he’d scratched his pen across the page, across Majid’s very being, Majid had agreed with the saying. Unfortunately, Mr. Binny didn’t apply the same principle to his own heart. Hearts needed to be clean, cleaner than any handwriting. Isn’t that what made the heavens clean? Pure thought. With that, Majid closed his eyes, said a short prayer to his Maker, and opened the doors to his treasury.

  Who would visit today? Mr. Clark, from only a few blocks away, who had diabetes but pretended he didn’t? Or would it be his wife, Amanda, who issued stern warnings to Majid not to sell her husband anything? Amanda acted out of love and Majid never took her words to heart. She was protecting her man, just as Fatima had done with Majid when they’d first met. It was the small gestures he remembered—how she had smiled at him when he lay flat on the ground thanks to a blow from Isa; that smile had said, “I respect you for not being like them.” He had made up his mind then and there that this was the girl he would marry. She was the catch of Madanpura, no doubt. Pure thought.

  Or would it be Jamshed, the Iranian man who kept speaking of Tehran, and how it was better, far better and more beautiful, than Vancouver? “Only during the Shah’s time,” he would clarify. “We had streams, natural streams coming in from the mountains and going through the city.” He said Almirah’s sweets reminded him of sweet times. But sweets are not nostalgic things, thought Majid. Sweets are here and now. The present was sweet, especially his present.

  It wasn’t Mr. Clark or his wife Amanda; it wasn’t Jamshed.

  Today there was a new face in the sweet shop, and this was a good sign. It meant that more and more people were hearing about Almirah, becoming enchanted by its tales, lured by its scents. And to top it all, the man was a fellow Muslim. Majid smiled more widely than usual. A smile, he thought, represented arms; and an open smile meant open arms. If he could hug all his customers, greet them with a warm embrace, he would. But that was not allowed in Canada. Of course, he would hug only the men. But even then. There were rules of conduct here, and he respected them. Some of these rules were a bit stifling, but these Canadians knew what they were doing. Vancouver was rated as one of the top three cities in the world to live in. There was Melbourne, then Vienna, then Vancouver. And of course, Madanpura came in
fourth. As soon as Majid thought this, he chuckled, but the next second he admonished himself. No need to have proud thoughts on his anniversary. There must be nothing to jinx anything.

  The man was standing in front of the glass display case, admiring the array of sweets that Majid had placed before his customers. Just as the apothecaries of old made potions and powders for various illnesses, Majid considered himself a modern-day apothecary curing customers through the senses. If the tongue was sweet, he believed, then words that came out of the mouth would be the same; if the stomach was happy instead of growling, the heart would purr. And the colours that he mixed into his sweets made them dazzle the eye in the same way flowers did. Except that these were flowers you ate. When his partner, Mr. Taylor, had interviewed Majid, that’s what Majid had told him: “Sir, my sweets are flowers that you eat.” And he had seen Mr. Taylor’s eyes light up just like this man’s were lighting up now, right before him.

  Majid never greeted his new customers verbally. Not unless they looked directly at him. He let the sweets cast a spell. If the customer was a regular, that was a different matter. This man was beguiled, no question about it. After a few minutes he looked up at Majid and greeted him.

  “As-salaam-alaikum.”

  “Wa-alaikum-salaam,” Majid replied.

  What a pleasure to hear Arabic in his treasury. It had been a while, and the sound added more sweetness to the place; deeply embedded in the sound was its meaning: peace be unto you. Peace. Nothing more important. Nothing more beneficial than peace for human beings. That’s what Majid had tried to tell his brother, but would Isa listen? Isa was the big lion, and Majid the young, timid sheep. What lion listens to a sheep? Majid felt the smile dissipate from his lips. Why was he thinking about the past so much? Perhaps he had given too much weight to this one-year anniversary. He focused his attention on the customer.