Translated from the Gibberish

by Anosh Irani

  “Hello, my friend,” said Majid. “How can I help you?”

  “I have been invited for a birthday dinner,” the man said. “And I would like to take something with me.”

  “Where are your friends from?” Majid asked. The man seemed confused by the question. But to Majid it was perfectly apt. “What I mean is, are your friends Canadian or…”

  “No,” the man replied. “They are not from here.”

  Majid felt the man wanted to say more, but he didn’t. He wasn’t shy, but there was a sense of decency about him. He was not mild, but gentle.

  “I ask because Canadians have a liking for certain sweets of mine, but not others.”

  “In that case, I will let you decide. It’s better that way. I’m in a hurry. I’m still on my shift.”

  Through the glass, Majid saw a yellow taxi parked haphazardly. That was okay, the lot was empty. The barber next door had mostly foot traffic, and the convenience store on the other side rarely opened on time.

  “You a cab driver?” It was obvious, but Majid asked anyway. He wanted the man to speak, to give something back to Majid.

  “Yes,” said the man. And that was all.

  Majid chose the malpua—a fluffy circular delight, a Mughlai version of the Western pancake, but better. Served with thick sweetened milk. “Serve them hot,” he said. “But you probably know that.”

  The man nodded in gratitude. As he was paying, Majid saw the weariness on the man’s face. He hadn’t noticed it before, not when the man had first walked in. But now, as the fellow reached into his wallet, Majid saw that his hands were dry, with bits of flaking skin, and the wallet itself mirrored the hand, not so much roughed up as unable to withstand much. He knew what it was—they reminded him of Isa’s hands. The constant rolling of the wheelchair, the turning of time, the finality of his brother’s condition. How long had it been since he had spoken to Isa? Almost three months. Each time Majid asked for him, his brother came to the phone but stayed silent, surly, as if Majid had been the one responsible for his condition.

  “Thank you,” said the man.

  Majid nodded. He watched as the man walked away, his legs heavy as if waterlogged. Perhaps he’d had a hard time in this country. Majid felt he needed to do something. Show the man that Canada could be generous, was generous, a country that had welcomed beings such as him. The nation had opened its arms to those who had been shunned across the border as well. In times such as these, to do so was a religious act, a spiritual act. The naysayers argued that it was a naive move, that there would be a price to pay down the line. If their neighbours were showing a lack of humanity, Canada was showing gullibility. But there were always naysayers, Majid argued. There were always those who viewed kindness as weakness. It made him angry. No, he would be kind.

  “My friend,” he said.

  The man was almost at the door. He turned around.

  “I would like to offer you something,” said Majid. “Any sweet you like, free of charge.”

  “Oh.”

  Such a simple word, “Oh”—yet it showed surprise, joy, perhaps even confusion.

  “It’s the anniversary of my shop today, and I want you to have something on the house.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “I have to,” said Majid. “I have to.”

  The man came closer, almost childlike in his walk to the display case. The heaviness in his legs was still there, but his eyes showed a spark of delight.

  “I can’t,” he said. “But I’m grateful for the gesture.”

  “Please,” said Majid. “I will take it as an ill omen if you refuse.”

  The man seemed to understand. His breath was heavy, and sweat appeared on his cheeks, just above the line made by his black beard.

  “In that case, I will accept,” he said. “But you must let me offer you something in return. A free ride in my cab any time you want.”

  A free ride? That seemed odd. Majid wasn’t a child. What would he do with a free cab ride?

  “Why are you smiling?” asked the man.

  “I’m…It’s just that no one has ever offered me a free cab ride before.”

  “We can offer only that which is ours, only that which we are good at.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Majid. “I did not mean to offend you.”

  “It’s okay,” said the man. “I’m not offended. But I hope Aidah didn’t hear you.”

  “Aidah?”

  “Yes,” he said. “She can be sensitive.”

  “Who’s Aidah?”

  The man looked at his taxi.

  “You’ve named your taxi Aidah?”

  “Why not?”

  Because it’s weird, odd, crackpot. Majid wanted to say those things, especially the word “crackpot.” That had been Mr. Binny’s word. He’d used it a lot, especially when speaking about the school principal.

  “If one man can name his sweets, why can’t another name his cab?” the man asked.

  “Well said, my friend.”

  “So you will accept a ride?”

  “I will,” said Majid. “Now, what can I pack for you?”

  As the man moved closer to the glass display case, Majid felt anxious. The man’s hands weren’t the cleanest, and Majid didn’t want that big frame to lean against the glass, much less for palms to touch the glass. He had a memory of his grandfather, who used to clean his reading glasses all day. He would clean and clean with his white handkerchief, then put his glasses on. Then he’d look at Majid and say, “You don’t look dirty anymore. You can go tell your mother you don’t need to have a bath.” The joke had always tickled Majid. Keep the glass clean and the world looks better. That’s what his grandfather had taught him.

  Majid watched the man’s finger. Long and straight, sure of what it wanted.

  “I’ll take the gulab jamuns,” said the man.

  “You can’t go wrong with those.”

  As he packed the brown dumplings, Majid realized that this man was good. He was a man of respect; a man Majid would perhaps like to befriend. Or help. He was a man of character, someone his grandfather would have approved of. After all, he had not smudged the glass.

  * * *

  —

  THE CUSTOMER HAD SHARED the name of his taxi, but not his own name. So the next time the man walked in, Majid asked him straight away.

  Jalal was his name. He did not offer a last name, and Majid did not need one. I’m Majid, he thought. Maker of Sweets, Adder of Sweetness, Bringer of Coolness to the Stomach. That’s what he wanted to say, but he knew his words would be viewed as peacocking.

  The next time Jalal arrived, it was late in the evening, when the shop was about to close.

  Majid let him in, let him sit and watch as he closed shop. He even gave Jalal a cup of tea, and the choice of whatever else he wanted from the display case—some sweets he did not keep for more than a day. Jalal argued that Majid was making him fat, and his wife would not like it. She was in Vancouver, along with a daughter, Sara. He was madly in love with his wife, he said. He offered that piece of information without Majid asking, and when Majid said it had to be that way, why would it be any other, Jalal replied that to say it aloud was a reminder of his good fortune, a way of offering thanks. Majid liked the idea, so he offered thanks too, by telling Jalal how much he loved Fatima, how she had dared to stand up to the likes of Isa and his cronies, how she had implored the young police officer who was stationed in Madanpura to let Majid go, when Majid had been picked up by the police in connection with Isa. Majid had been questioned regarding Isa’s whereabouts, and even slapped around. But he did not squeak, he did not crumble, he simply maintained his innocence. And when young Fatima charged into the police station and spoke humbly and truthfully, the cop, out of shame, let Majid go. If a complaint had been registered that night, he told Jalal, his Canadian dream would never have come to fruition. If you had a police record, you could not enter the country. Although it wasn’t a Canadian dream back then, he quickly clarified.
Back then, it was any dream of leaving, a Get Out of Here Dream. Now, he had only one dream left: to bring Fatima and Ayesha to Vancouver. Once that was done, he would praise Allah so much, Allah would have to descend to Earth and request him to stop. But Majid would not.

  Majid did not ask Jalal why, even though he had a wife and daughter here in Canada, even though he was so in love with his wife and called her a “garden he woke up to each morning,” there was that patch of sadness in him, the way a lung carries a patch, black and tobacco stained. Majid was sure the patch was there, but it was too soon to ask about it. But the patch was what Majid was after. If he could help Jalal get rid of it, he would consider himself a Good Muslim.

  Instead, Majid laughed when Jalal asked him why his English was so good. He wanted to tell Jalal that he’d had the best teacher, and by best he meant the worst, because sometimes the line between the two is so thin only time reveals its true nature. Here was Mr. Binny again, creeping his way back into Majid’s present. Perhaps Mr. Binny was calling out to Majid, all the way from Bombay, trying to seek forgiveness? In his last days, what else did a man want? Forgiveness from those he had wronged. Majid would gladly give it. He harboured no ill will towards Mr. Binny—or, perhaps, only a little. If Mr. Binny did ever get in touch, Majid would speak to him in a Canadian accent. He had acquired the accent on purpose. It did not roll off his tongue easily, but he slipped in and out of it as if it was a jumper he wore when it rained—if and when required. “Hey, buddy,” he would say to Mr. Binny. “No hard feelings.” That would get Mr. Binny’s goat. No one had ever called Mr. Binny “buddy.” The man didn’t have buddies. And now he was dying alone, in a small room, with an old calendar on the wall, a calendar where the faces of the students he had wronged appeared instead of dates. In contrast, the days were flying by here in Vancouver, swift and loud, like those annoying seagulls that always seemed to come out of nowhere. They were the equivalent of Bombay’s crows.

  Majid had noticed that Jalal always referred to the city as Mumbai. This was normal for people who weren’t from there. Majid still called it Bombay.

  “That was one bad time,” Jalal was saying. “The riots in Mumbai.”

  “Yes,” said Majid. “You lose someone?”

  “Everyone lost someone,” said Jalal.

  “My brother lost his legs.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Jalal.

  “It’s okay,” said Majid. “We all come with our own destiny.”

  “Do you really believe that?”

  “In destiny?”

  “In the unchanging nature of things? That no matter what we do, things happen?”

  Majid had to think about that for a second. He did believe in destiny, but he also believed in free will. In goodness. In the echo that comes to us thanks to our conduct.

  “I believe that certain things are destined. No matter what we do, we must encounter them,” said Majid. “People, places, moments, events. But then, apart from all that, there is this huge sky, upon which we can write whatever we want.”

  “Fair enough,” said Jalal.

  He didn’t say more, and Majid sensed it was his lung patch that was beckoning, making him ask questions then making him retreat. Perhaps Majid needed to push and see if Jalal was willing to share something more, something beyond the name of his taxi.

  “I think if you do good, you receive good,” he said. “But the things that are written, they will come anyway.”

  This got no reaction from Jalal. He gulped the rest of his tea, smacked his lips, and shook Majid’s hand. Majid looked straight into Jalal’s eyes, and noticed dark circles, soft black paper upon which something had been written, the very destiny that he was perhaps grappling with.

  * * *

  —

  THE NEXT DAY, WHEN MAJID SPOKE by phone with Fatima, he told her about Jalal. Fatima said she was glad that he was making friends, but he replied that even though he felt a friendship developing, he was simply doing his duty. Relax, Fatima told him. Have some fun. Why do you always act like a saint? This annoyed Majid. It reminded him of one of Mr. Binny’s retorts: “You don’t fool me with that Goody Two-Shoes act, Majid. I know who you really are.” Back then, Majid had wanted to tell his teacher that he wasn’t acting, he was just trying to behave himself and get out of Mr. Binny’s hair, which was as curly and unruly as his thinking. And now here was Fatima teasing her husband, saying he was trying to get the Canadian Citizen of the Year Award.

  There is no such thing, Majid protested, but Fatima claimed there must be, now that Majid had arrived in Canada. Then she handed the phone to Ayesha. Majid told her to study hard, not to watch too much television, but then Fatima came back on and told him that no one watches TV anymore, these youngsters watch their phones instead, and it was only a matter of time before Ayesha demanded one, and when was he going to buy an iPhone for himself so that she could finally see his shop, and Majid himself in his Canadian avatar, and the city at the other end of the world where he promised them happiness and sunsets and snow like barfi? She must have sensed Majid’s temperature rising because she told him to relax, which made him relax even less, until it made him laugh.

  Finally, Majid asked to speak with Isa, and Fatima went mute.

  She had to live with Isa, in the same house, and look after him even though she didn’t like him. He hadn’t changed much, she always said; but Majid had faith that he would. Why did Majid have to keep asking for him, Fatima protested. Did Isa ever pick up the phone and call Majid? All he did was get high and talk about his smuggling days when people would shake in front of him as though he were a tiger. Some tiger, Fatima said. More like a snail, a man reduced to a crawl. Divine justice.

  But he is good with our daughter, Majid reminded her.

  Ayesha cared about Isa. She did not see him as a criminal; she saw an uncle in a wheelchair. Perhaps he and Fatima needed to see Isa in that same light. Put on grandfather’s glasses. Clean the glass, clean the glass.

  Whenever Isa spoke into the phone, he had a horrible habit of clearing his throat. The sound rumbled through the line, a train full of phlegm. It piqued Majid no end, and he knew Isa was doing it on purpose. Grandfather is watching, he told himself. Isa is your brother. He’s lost, but he’s still your brother.

  “So how’s everything?” he asked.

  “Perfect,” said Isa. “Last night, my legs magically reappeared.”

  My brother is testing me, thought Majid. And if it is my brother who is testing me, it is Allah who is testing me. Brothers, blood brothers. One shed blood, while the other ran from it.

  “I hadn’t spoken with you in a long time, so I thought…”

  “Yes,” said Isa. “It’s been a while.” Then Majid heard him clear his throat again, and spit—hopefully in his spittoon, the able companion that he carried with him wherever he went, which was mostly from his room to the living room and back. He had once asked Fatima to empty out the spittoon and she had flatly refused. He had asked this to upset her, and he had succeeded.

  “When are you coming back home?” asked Isa.

  “I am home.”

  “You expect me to believe that?”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s not home unless the butcher and barber have known you since childhood.”

  From these words, Majid knew that the conversation would quickly develop into something sour. Not that his relationship with his brother had ever been sweet. Isa had the knack for confrontation, and Majid was not in the mood. He was about to say goodbye when a question suddenly popped out of his mouth.

  “Isa, have you heard anything about Mr. Binny?”

  “That English lund?”

  “Yes, our English teacher.”

  “If he was the teacher, how come I taught him something?”

  Isa’s tone had changed. Majid imagined him sitting up in his wheelchair, the way he’d sat up as a kid when he’d heard tales of the underworld. Tales of encounters and deceitful set-ups made Isa’s spine stiffen, the
way the devil’s spine did when he smelled something delicious.

  “How hard did you slap him?” asked Majid.

  “So hard that the sound rebounded off the church walls and landed back on his cheek. Why do you want to know about that piece of shit?”

  “Just thought about him, that’s all.”

  “Think about some chick, some hot gand that you want. What the hell are you thinking of Binny for?”

  It was strange how easily Isa called him Binny, and how reluctant Majid was to call him anything but Mr. Binny, even after all these years.

  “I just wanted to know.”

  “I can find out,” said Isa. “Maybe I’ll go slap him again.”

  “No,” said Majid. “That’s not why—”

  Isa started laughing. “You fool, I’m in a wheelchair. Do you think I still slap people? The only person I slap is myself. All the time. To wake up from this nightmare. But my slaps are too weak for that.”

  “I’m sorry, I…”

  “Leave it,” said Isa. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “I do, bhai…”

  “How can you? You left your family here. To rot with a man like me. What kind of person does that?”

  A person who wants to make you better. In the hope that you see the love that Fatima and Ayesha are capable of. So that someday, maybe, if you change, I can bring you to Canada as well. It’s not your legs that are crippled, it’s your mind. Majid wanted to say all these things, but his brain was getting hot. To hell with it, he thought. He was about to give Isa a piece of his mind when the line went dead.

  * * *

  —

  AT LEAST MAJID HAD JALAL. Jalal was turning up regularly at the shop now, always arriving just before closing, and whenever he came, he brought something with him, a gift for his own daughter that he would take home at the end of the shift. The things he got her were quite ridiculous: a key chain with a monkey hanging from it, a pair of plastic sunglasses with the words Love is written on the lenses in pink, a pair of earmuffs. Jalal’s friend owned a dollar store, and he always gave Jalal things for free. Today, he was carrying a golf ball.