A Fistful of Dust

by Nasser Hashmi

  Ayesha looked over her shoulder at Wasim. It was a sharp glance and I detected a hint of disapproval. She sighed and covered the pot with a lid. She then picked up a grater and a small coconut and started grating it into a small bowl. There were already some grated carrots in the bowl and she eventually mixed the two together. To my surprise, she then started to scoop the raw coconuts and carrots with her fingers and eat them. She offered me some but they didn’t look too appetising.

  ‘You understand these things so I tell you,’ she said. ‘My mother needs an operation to clear a blood vessel in her heart. Our main hospital doesn’t have the equipment…private hospital does but we don’t have the money.’

  ‘We’re going to send money back to them,’ said Wasim, interrupting unnecessarily. ‘We’ll visit and stuff.’

  ‘My two young sisters are students,’ said Ayesha. ‘Abdullah gives me some money but not enough. I have to help my mother…’

  ‘And your father…where is he?’

  Ayesha gave me a piercing look as though I had insulted her. I could also tell Wasim was getting irritated because he was tapping his foot against the stool. His patience obviously snapped because he got up and walked towards me. He rushed past me and opened the door. His drastic action affected my balance for a moment but I managed to hang onto the towel rail by the door. I was doing fine until my hand moved across and touched the wet crimson towel on the rail. Suddenly, the damp sensation swarmed through my body like an electric shock and made me feel sick and dizzy. The strong, sizzling fumes from the pot were also emboldened and got up my nose, causing me to sneeze repeatedly. I could feel myself falling backwards and knew I had to leave instantly. I turned around and walked through the door without looking at Wasim.

  ‘Wait,’ said Ayesha.

  I couldn’t wait. I had to lie down because I was shivering.

  ‘My father met a woman in Kuwait City and we never saw him again,’ she said.

  I didn’t digest what she’d said because it was too loud. I thought about asking Wasim help me get back into the bedroom but there was too much pride at stake. I didn’t look back and stepped into the corridor. I wasn’t sure which way to walk but I could see the bristly corner of the rug in the main room and headed towards that. I kept my head down and looked at my toes. There were a couple of lackeys sat in the main room with their backs against the walls and legs outstretched but I ignored them. I got to the bedroom quicker than expected and, thankfully, there was no–one in there. I sat down on the bed and tried to take my shoes off but the rapid nature of my breathing didn’t allow it. So I lay down with my clothes and shoes on. I tried to relax but my lower part of my right lung felt as though it was being singed. I realised the strain of the cricket may have caused the flare–up but sometimes you had to sacrifice yourself for the greater good. I turned to my other side but my hip was extremely stiff and painful. I knew it wasn’t comfortable on either side so the fallback position of lying on the back, hands and feet crossed was the only solution. I adopted that position for about five minutes and was beginning to relax when the loud sound of an engine revving up could be heard outside the house. I ignored it for a while but when my ears began to pop, there was no escape. I sat up and glanced up at the window over my shoulder about three feet above my head. After a few more seconds of indecision, I awkwardly stood up on the bed, with my legs shaking and my vision blurred. I took a deep breath and looked through the grimy, wire–netted window. I cocked my neck forward and could see Jerry sitting on a standard Yamaha motorbike slipping a luminous green earphone underneath his bandana and into his ear. He then waved to someone at the door, who I couldn’t see but presumed was Abbie. He revved his engine and tightly gripped the handlebars. Suddenly, he glanced up at the bedroom window and looked straight at me. His sparky, energetic eyes met mine and threw me off balance. I moved away from the window and slumped down on the bed. I leaned back and heard the motorbike move off a few minutes later. I could only draw one conclusion from looking into Jerry’s eyes: he was the only one who knew what he was doing.

  I woke up with a stiff neck and saw Wasim reading namaz in the corner of the room. He crossed his hands in front of his chest and then raised them up to his ears. Christ was it Maghrib already? I must have slept for hours. My empty bag was lying next to my grandson’s feet which sent me into a cold sweat. Where was my cricket equipment? Did I bring it back or had I asked someone else to take care of it? I stumbled out of bed as fast as I could and ignored my whispering grandson. I walked out of the room and down the corridor. I got into the main room and Abbie was the only person there, also reading Maghrib prayers. He was sitting near the wall on his velvet blue and red prayer mat with his hands on his thighs. I walked in behind him and stopped a few feet away. I waited for him to look left and right but he took longer than expected, relishing the slow movement of his head and the melodic, drawn–out verse. He finally moved his head westwards and I moved forward.

  ‘What happened to my cricket gear?’ I asked.

  ‘I still haven’t finished,’ he said, cupping his hands and reading his final prayer. ‘But as you’re a guest I’ll tell you. Hashim fell in love with it and took it home for his son.’

  I felt a sharp pain on the right side of my head as if it had been punctured by a set of needles. I wanted him to turn and face me but his rude gesture of keeping his back to me incensed me further.

  ‘He nicked it? Wasn’t it your job to stop him?’

  ‘You should be happy; you’ve found someone who loves your silly game.’ He raised his cupped hands closer to his face and closed his eyes. ‘Now don’t speak to me until I’ve finished.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  Abbie didn’t answer and simply read louder, raising his voice even more when it came to ‘Ameen’. I wanted to kick his back but I had pins and needles in my favourite foot so that was a non–starter. I swore silently and walked back to the bedroom in turmoil. I walked down the corridor and opened the bedroom door. Wasim was bending down picking up the folded grey blanket he’d used for a prayer mat. I walked towards him and grabbed him by the arm.

  ‘See that?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘My bag is empty.’

  ‘So…’

  I pulled him across towards the bed and tried to sit him down but he was too strong: he remained standing. He folded his arms and looked down at the floor.

  ‘Don’t start, nana jee, I feel right close to Allah–thallah right now…’

  ‘Come on we’re leaving right now, get your things…’

  ‘Don’t you want your cricket gear back?’

  ‘I’m too tired for that. If you want to stab people with the wickets and attack people with the bat, then go ahead I couldn’t care less. I’m here to take you home – and I’m doing that right now.’

  Wasim sat down on the bed and took off his tightly–worn keffiyah. He rubbed his head and looked up at me. ‘You’ve lost your mojo and you’re a bit mad, I get it. But I still ain’t going.’ He took his sandals off and lay down on the bed. ‘Cricket just doesn’t work here, nana jee, it’s the killing fields.’

  I opened my mouth but a pathetic whisper came out. Was my voice now affected too? I strained to try and answer but there was little I could do if my decaying organs were not responding. I rubbed my throat and wondered how much longer I could go on fighting with someone who was clearly not listening to me and, further, may have been causing my health to deteriorate.

  ‘Are you okay, nana jee?’ asked Wasim.

  I heard him but couldn’t react. He got up off the bed and came towards me. He put his arm round me and ushered me towards the bed. He laid me down awkwardly and took off his keffiyah. He folded it up and laid it across my forehead.

  ‘Do you want some water?’

  I shook my aching, shrinking head. Wasim was inches from my face and provided a scrap of comfort. It was as though the issues of war, martyrdom, cricket, disease and family had been sidelined for a few seconds and it was j
ust about him and me: a grandson showing compassion for his sick grandfather. It was the first time I’d seen that glint in his eye since I’d arrived in Iraq.

  But it didn’t last long. A few minutes later, Abbie walked into the bedroom. He looked annoyed but stood there for a few seconds assessing what he saw in front of him.

  ‘A man called Gulzar is here.’

  Gulzar? There was an instant surge of adrenaline. No medicine was needed. For now.

  10.

  The coughing, scarring and whispery breathing remained undisturbed but there was a glimmer of hope that my secondary ordeal – which I’d named Sadr and Sadr in Abbiestan – was in remission. As I soon as I brushed away the green blanket and set eyes on Gulzar, I could see the whole picture emerging again: a flight (or three) back to Britain; breakfast, lunch and dinner at Edmund Street; Elisha’s tears of joy; a long, treasured walk across Lenny Barn and a nice afternoon tea with Len. It was an intoxicating feeling – and all because of his face. He was standing by the clapped–out portable fan with his arms folded and his sparkling green eyes fixed on Abbie. I wanted to hug him but knew it would exert too much energy so I waited by the green blanket desperately trying to keep my excitement under control. He eventually sat down on a flimsy brown cushion by the wall and looked up at me. For a few seconds, he straightened his leather belt and then used a tiny notebook as a fan to keep cool. He rubbed the stitches on his chin and trained his eyes on Abbie again.

  ‘You’ve made him lose weight and look 50 times worse,’ said Gulzar. ‘Do you have no shame?’

  ‘Weak old men have no place in this country,’ said Abbie, spitting out a seed from a date into his hand. ‘You can’t stay here tonight.’

  ‘Like Faris? Was he free to choose?’

  Abbie looked angry and didn’t answer. He threw the seed onto a white saucer on a small table but it missed and fell onto the floor. He didn’t pick it up and started walking towards the back entrance. He got to the door and opened it. He glanced at me and then left the room. Gulzar watched the door close and then briskly got up. He walked towards me and gave me a warm, lingering embrace that was surprising as well as invigorating.

  ‘Where’s that stupid grandson of yours?’ he asked, gently letting go of me. ‘If I’d known he’d bring you here, I wouldn’t have let you come. I thought you’d stay at Bilu’s.’

  ‘He’s in the bedroom,’ I said. ‘Who’s Faris anyway?’

  Gulzar sighed and turned away from me. He then faced me again and pointed at the green blanket. He didn’t say anything as he brushed the blanket away. He put his arm round my shoulder and we both walked into the corridor. He eventually got to the bedroom door and stopped outside it. He waved the notebook in my face to relieve my sweating. He took a deep breath and prepared to open the door.

  ‘Pack your bags; we must drive back to Baghdad tonight,’ he said.

  The words were important because they provided confirmation. An extraordinary weight was lifted off my shoulders. Baghdad was like paradise compared to where we were. I walked through the bedroom and had a spring in my step. But as Gulzar walked in ahead of me, I scoured the room and was embarrassed to find it empty. Wasim wasn’t there and I was furious that he’d escaped my clutches once more. I walked in and fidgeted around for a while, checking my bag fraudulently to see if my cricket gear had miraculously returned. Gulzar looked out of window and then sat down on the bed. He leaned forward and crossed his hands.

  ‘…An elusive boy, your grandson,’ he said. ‘A bit like Faris.’

  I stopped messing around with my bag and zipped it up. I turned around and faced him. He was hunched over with his head almost touching his chest. Some of the sparkle and vitality from his eyes had diminished.

  ‘I wasn’t totally honest with you about my family,’ he said. ‘It’s true all three of my children are dead. There was a big accident and most of my family were in that car. But my son wasn’t in that car…he was here…’

  ‘With Abbie?’

  He sighed and got up off the bed. He walked towards me and put both hands on my shoulders. ‘Yes, Faris was part of the Khalifa Brigades,’ he said, looking beyond me. He then grabbed my hand tightly with both hands, closing his eyes in the process. He eventually let go and walked back to the bed. He sat down and leaned forward again.

  ‘He was 17 when he met Abdullah in Baghdad. He was killed just after the invasion. Abdullah says American soldiers shot him at a farmhouse a few kilometres from here but I’m not so sure…’

  ‘Can’t you do anything? Won’t the police investigate?’

  He looked up and offered a knowing smile. ‘There was no body. The Americans say one thing, Abdullah says another and the witnesses say a third.’ He pressed his index finger into the stitches on his chin. ‘Once you and Wasim are safe and out of the country, I will continue to seek the truth. But for now, you are the priority.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘And I thought I had it bad chasing Wasim around the country…’

  ‘Where do you think he is?’

  ‘Probably in the kitchen with that woman.’

  ‘Who? Ayesha?’

  I nearly choked on my considerable saliva.

  ‘You know her?’

  We walked down to the kitchen and Gulzar told me how he came to know Ayesha. He said he had known her for two years because she had been cooking for the Brigades when Faris was part of the group. He had first met her after Faris had been killed because she’d come forward to offer information about his son’s relationships in the group and how he might have died. None of this led to any further clues about Faris’s death but they did strike up a friendship and, eventually, Ayesha opened up to him about her sick mother. Gulzar said he was happy to help out and took her mother to a hospital in Erbil where she could have the operation she needed. Then, only a few weeks ago, she told him about Wasim and Abbie and how they were competing for her affections. She said Abbie had given her an ultimatum: she had to marry him in order to keep her job. She couldn’t agree to that so Abbie had told her never to come back again.

  The revelations came thick and fast and the sheer amount of startling information made me dizzy. It didn’t surprise me Gulzar was a lawyer. He had impressively condensed a plethora of explosive details and put a fresh spin on a situation that wasn’t as clear cut as I’d first thought. But I could only fully absorb the last detail; namely that Ayesha had left. I was now totally confused about how I should approach my grandson. Was he here? Perhaps he had left too?

  Gulzar stopped at the pale yellow kitchen door and I walked in a few feet behind him. He glanced over his shoulder and then yanked the door open. We walked in and waited by the door. I looked down and saw Wasim sitting on the grimy white tiles with his back awkwardly against the stool. He was looking blankly down at the floor with his mobile phone by his side.

  ‘I’m going to fuckin’ kill Abdullah,’ he said, without looking up. ‘I’M GOING TO FUCKIN’ KILL HIM.’

  ‘There’s no need for that,’ I said, walking towards him. ‘Gulzar’s here to help us now. Come on, we’ve got no time to waste.’

  Wasim shook his head in disbelief. ‘She phoned me on the mobile I bought her. Fuckin’ charming. I should have charged her.’

  I bent down as best as I could and put my hand on his shoulder. He pushed my hand off and looked up at Gulzar.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’ he asked.

  Gulzar walked forward and, to my surprise, grabbed Wasim’s shoulder a little more aggressively than I expected.

  ‘Do you have no respect for your grandfather? Now get up.’

  Wasim still wouldn’t budge and, provocatively, folded his arms. ‘I’m not leaving until I sort Abdullah. He’s gone to Shami’s; he’ll be back in a few minutes.’

  Gulzar now tried to get both his arms underneath Wasim’s shoulders but my grandson continued to clench his teeth and resist. I felt uneasy about the amount of force Gulzar was using but what was there left to try?
/>   ‘I’M NOT FUCKIN’ GOING ANYWHERE,’ he shouted.

  Wasim drew his head back and headbutted Gulzar on the chin. It was a glancing blow but it still pushed Gulzar back onto the floor. I got in front of Wasim and held his face with both hands.

  ‘What are you doing? Have you gone mad?’

  There was a moment of silence as I looked into the expanding whites of his eyes. Suddenly, we all flinched at the noise of an almighty explosion at the back of the house. The sound of bullets pinging against the back walls could also be heard. Two came through the wire–netted window and whistled against the pale yellow door. Wasim quickly got up and raced towards the door.

  ‘SHIT, MY KLASHIE’S UNDER THE BED,’ he said.

  Gulzar frantically followed Wasim out of the kitchen as a rocket–propelled grenade smashed through the window and blew up half of the kitchen. But I was in a state of paralysis. The force of the blast left me shaking horribly and I was sure my chest had a giant hole in it. There was a salty smell in my nose and my eyes were burning. A red stool flew towards me and missed my head by inches.

  ‘COME ON, LET’S GET OUT OF HERE,’ said Gulzar, holding me by the arm.

  Gulzar tried to drag me along with him but my twisted back and wooden knees left me rooted to the spot. The kitchen wall had been sliced off and lay on its side like a slab of polystyrene. A golden fireball illuminated the lush field in the distance. Suddenly, the sense of panic diminished because of what I saw in front of me. It was captivating and exhilarating. The bright blue wickets glowed in the night sky underneath the glittering stars. They were like beacons of hope in amongst the garden of carnage. They remained upright and shone like never before. It was a glorious sight: a crackling sense of menace in the air but a sturdy, reassuring presence in the middle. I felt a sense of pride that I’d made a mark on this land. I started to breathe easier and managed to turn around, happy in the knowledge that my legacy was safe. Gulzar grabbed me and dragged me away as a bullet smacked against the upper rim of the yellow door.