Spirit of a Mountain Wolf

by Rosanne Hawke

  Razaq started in surprise. “Danyal?”

  The boy didn’t smile.

  “Is it you?” Razaq took a step closer and the boy flinched. Razaq stopped. Where was the cheeky boy full of Punjabi jokes from Mr. Malik’s house? He glanced up at Bilal.

  “He has been trained as a malishia, like you,” Bilal said. “Mrs. M has found malish is good for business.”

  Razaq tried not to stare at Danyal. What had happened to him? Had he himself also changed that much? Then a thought struck Razaq. Now Ismat was gone, a room was spare. Was Danyal his replacement should he cause Mrs. Mumtaz any further trouble?

  As if Bilal could read his thoughts, he said, “Mrs. M told me to bring him so you know he is here. Maybe you have some malish tips for him?”

  Razaq blew out a breath. What hadn’t he known at first? “Whatever,” but by the look of Danyal, he had been taught that lesson already. What would he have liked someone to tell him? He knew Mrs. Mumtaz would want him to explain the rules: to not cause trouble, do “whatever,” don’t touch the girls or you get locked up.

  Instead, he said, “Do not let them take your whole self, Danyal—remember your jokes in your mind.”

  Danyal spoke then. “What good will that do? Will it help me escape?”

  Razaq thought about that. “No, it won’t change what happens to you, but it could make you think differently about how you feel. They are the ones who have given us these feelings of dirt and shame. We have mushkil, difficult feelings, now, but we are the same inside.” He thought of Zakim saying he answered to no man and laid a hand over his chest. “Don’t let them break you in here.”

  Danyal stared at him as if he were crazy.

  Razaq suddenly grinned. Perhaps he was. Would he have been able to say that if he didn’t have Tahira to think about? But he knew he was truly telling himself these things. Certainly, he was locked in a room, but he wasn’t dead yet. He may still think of something.

  Late one afternoon, a strange man came for a massage. Razaq stared at the man’s dark trousers and white shirt. He rarely had customers who wore Angrezi clothes.

  “My name is Majeed,” the man said. “You do massages?”

  Customers rarely gave their name either. Razaq tipped his head to the side.

  The man was checking out his room. “What else do you do here?”

  Razaq’s legs sagged, but he said with the emotion of a stone, “Whatever you want.”

  Majeed said, “Look at me. Razaq, is it not? I have heard of you.”

  A hot feeling grew up Razaq’s back. What did he mean?

  The man was watching him intently. “I do not want anything from you.”

  Razaq didn’t know whether to believe him or not; every muscle in his body was tensed. What if the man attacked him like the last crazy man? He would be ready this time.

  “Malishias don’t usually work in chaklas. Are you working here of your own free will? Or are you working off a debt?” When Razaq didn’t respond, he said, “Would you not rather work as a malishia on your own?”

  Was it some trick of Mrs. Mumtaz’s to check his loyalty? Razaq chewed the inside of his cheek. If he said “yes,” Majeed might complain. Then Mrs. Mumtaz would have a reason to cut him. She wanted to, he could tell. Even his voice was betraying him lately: squeaky one minute, cracking like a man’s the next. If she cut him, he wouldn’t grow a beard; he would have a voice like Bilal’s and always be a boy for her customers. He would never marry Tahira.

  The man took a card from his pocket. “Here, keep this. Call me and I will bring help if you want me to.”

  If it wasn’t so frightening it would be funny. Razaq closed his eyes. Next thing Majeed would be saying he had seen Zakim or someone he knew. He stood straighter, put the card on the bed; he had to stay strong.

  “By the way,” the man said, “do you have a relative called Javaid Khan?”

  If Razaq had been holding the card, he would have dropped it. His breath came faster. Majeed was clever like a fox and Razaq didn’t dare open his mouth in case he was tricked into saying something he shouldn’t.

  “Call me.” Majeed held his thumb and little finger to his ear to look like a phone as he went out of the door.

  Razaq slumped onto the bed. He couldn’t trust the man, he couldn’t. Then a voice inside his head said, Who knows you have an uncle?

  Mrs. Mumtaz didn’t know he had an uncle, did she? Who had he told? Aslam, Zakim, Tahira. Had he told Bilal? He couldn’t remember. Would Bilal betray him? Bilal worked for Mrs. Mumtaz and his first loyalty was to her. Suddenly, he stood up. Had Mrs. Mumtaz hurt Tahira to make her tell? He made himself calm down. It didn’t make sense for anyone to want to find that out.

  He turned the card over in his hand. He had seen cards like this: businessmen gave them to each other. There was an orange splash of color on the card, a star. It was so long since he had seen a book or a picture. Razaq sighed. That simple star, it was a light. His Uncle Javaid had told him once that people were like colored windows: when the sun was out, they shone easily; but when the darkness set in, their true beauty was only revealed if there was light from within. Zakim had said Razaq had a light within. Did he still have that?

  He looked at the card again. He couldn’t read it all; the letters were strange. He sounded out Majeed’s name, and there were numbers—his phone number obviously. Razaq grunted. Majeed didn’t know much. Where would he get a phone? Majeed didn’t even know he was locked in this room.

  When Bilal brought Razaq’s curry and bread, Razaq shoved the card in his shalwar pocket.

  Bilal had two white cords stuck in his ears. When he saw Razaq staring, he pulled them out. “It’s an iPod. I can listen anytime even when I go to the bazaar.”

  “A what?”

  Bilal showed Razaq the white plastic box smaller than a cell phone. “Here, you try.” He shoved the white buds into Razaq’s ears. It made him grin. Bilal pulled a bud out. “It is Bollywood music. Amir Khan.”

  “I like his acting,” Razaq said. “He always wins his fights.”

  “The hero always wins—that’s Bollywood.” Bilal laughed but Razaq could hear the yearning underneath. He sighed.

  It was a good feeling having music fill his head; there was little room left for any thoughts of his own. No wonder Bilal wore it all day.

  Razaq took out the cords and handed them back. “Shukriya.”

  Bilal was putting the iPod back in his pocket when Razaq asked his question. “Did you tell Mrs. Mumtaz I have an uncle?”

  Bilal looked up with such surprise that Razaq knew what he said would be true. “No, why give her bullets to fire?” Then he said with a frown, “Do you have an uncle?”

  Razaq regarded Bilal. Should he tell him about Majeed and laugh with him about what a crazy man he was? But he decided against it. If Majeed was telling the truth, the less Bilal knew the better.

  Chapter 27

  Razaq stood at the bottom of the mountain. It was made of black rock and stretched to the heavens. His mother put a wolf-skin vest on him and strapped sheepskins to his legs and feet. She put his pakol on his head and wrapped a goat’s-hair shawl around his neck and shoulders. “Make me proud to be the mother of Abdur-Razaq Nadeem Khan,” she whispered. “You are the only one who can fight the jinn and save the mountain. Climb to the top and the curse will be broken.”

  He jumped up to the first foothold and hauled himself higher like the Angrez mountain climbers did, except he had no ropes. Whenever he wavered, his mother’s voice was in his head. “Fight, Razaq, fight the tiredness. There is no mountain you cannot climb.”

  His hands were like claws finding rocks to hold onto. His feet followed his hands. He squinted up at the top. It never seemed to get any closer, but he knew he had to keep going. His father always said that mountain men were like the mountains themselves—they never gave up, never let anything conquer them, whether it be the government or militants or harsh living conditions.

  When he managed to reach t
he top, the wind knocked him backward, but he stood his ground and saw in front of him not the other side of the black rock mountain but green land sloping down to the valley and river below. When he looked behind him, the black rock dissolved before his eyes and became the forest he knew.

  Razaq’s eyes flew open. He had been dreaming, but he didn’t mind. Some days it was as if he truly was in the mountains: he could see his mother’s eyes telling him he was special, her only son, the one who would carry on his father’s name. He would have looked after his parents in their old age, his sisters too if they were widowed; grown apricot trees on the slopes. Razaq sighed. That was before the earthquake.

  Why hadn’t he resisted Ikram? Why hadn’t he realized he was an evil man? It had all happened so fast. If he had been able to say good-bye to Hussain and Abdul, they would have known—they were older, had seen more of life. But Ikram wouldn’t let him. Wasn’t that when he should have realized?

  Razaq held his head in his hands and groaned. He couldn’t live like this forever. He just couldn’t. He was just like Ardil. No one would give his daughter in marriage to a boy who had been involved in bachabazi like Ardil or prostitution as Razaq was. He knew a man keeping a boy like Ardil in his home was haram, and yet other men must have known it was going on. How was it that a man could be whipped for committing adultery, a woman stoned even, but a rich, important man could ruin a boy’s life and still walk free? Like Mr. Malik.

  Razaq clenched his fingers. What had he to look forward to here? Nothing. He couldn’t even see Tahira. Bilal and his iPod was the only good part of his day, but he knew he couldn’t fully trust Bilal, just as he hadn’t been able to trust Aslam.

  He closed his eyes, trying to picture his mother again in his mind. If he could only keep her with him maybe he could endure. But she faded as she always did. His mother had told him to take notice of dreams, for it was the way God spoke. Razaq sat up, his eyes wide open. He sat still on the edge of the bed for a long time, and then he knew what he had to do.

  The first customer that day was one of his regulars who needed a back massage. He was a bank teller, one of the few customers who wore Angrezi clothes. After the session was finished and the man was buttoning up his shirt, Razaq took a risk. He chewed the inside of his cheek and then blurted out, “Do you have a cell phone?”

  He knew the man did; everyone owned one, it seemed, except him. Even Bilal had one so Mrs. Mumtaz could contact him.

  “Certainly,” the man said. “You need to make a call?”

  Razaq gave the ghost of a smile and nodded. The man showed the same hospitality his parents had instilled in him: if someone asks for help, you give it. He watched as the man reached into his pocket. He had to be careful. What if he had misjudged the man, and he told Mrs. Mumtaz that Razaq had used his phone? It would probably be an offense worthy of being cut.

  The man handed Razaq the phone. Razaq had memorized the number; he didn’t want anyone seeing that card. He tried to look businesslike, but he had no idea how to use the phone.

  The man smiled. “This way,” he said and turned the phone around. “Touch the keypad here and speak in there.” He pointed so Razaq could see.

  Razaq pressed the numbers and was surprised by the keypad tones, then he put the phone to his ear as the man indicated. When Majeed answered, Razaq said, “Janab, I can fit you in today if you wish. It is Razaq.” He didn’t wait for Majeed to say anything and handed the phone back.

  The man pressed a key on the phone and smiled at Razaq as he put it in his pocket. Razaq wasn’t sure what the smile meant. Did the man think he had a special relationship? More importantly, did the man know that only Mrs. Mumtaz made bookings and would he tell? Razaq tried to appear calm. Never show a dangerous animal you have fear—look uninterested.

  “Khuda hafiz, good-bye,” he said to the customer at the door, then he sank onto the bed. Mrs. Mumtaz was always swift to act. If the man saw her and mentioned the incident, Razaq wouldn’t have long to wait. If the man told Bilal, who normally showed customers out and locked Razaq’s door again, would he tell Mrs. Mumtaz? Razaq sat holding his knees, rocking with his thoughts.

  There was a bang on the door. Razaq jumped off the bed and stood by the window. The door opened and Bilal ushered in a customer, another of Razaq’s regulars. Bilal gave him a strange look, and Razaq hoped it was only because he was standing by the window like a frightened lamb.

  It was difficult to concentrate on the man’s massage. Razaq’s mind wobbled all over the place. He had done such a dangerous thing: raced downwind into the path of a she-bear. Would she notice?

  Majeed didn’t come that day, nor the next. Maybe the phone didn’t work. Maybe that was why the customer had smiled: he had tricked Razaq. Or maybe Majeed was too busy for him. He was a fool to think anyone might care about children locked in a brothel.

  It was Bilal who put an end to his torment. “I have something for you,” he said with a grin. It was a folded piece of paper.

  Razaq couldn’t think. Surely Majeed hadn’t contacted Bilal? Had he been caught out? But if so, why was Bilal looking so smug?

  “It is from a girl,” Bilal teased.

  This did nothing to reassure Razaq. Neelma would be just the sort of girl to write a note to a boy, and he didn’t need trouble from her right now.

  “You look like a wild animal is chasing you,” Bilal said. “Here.” He handed it over.

  Razaq hesitated before unfolding the page. What he saw was a picture of a mountain, a sun, and goats climbing on rocks. It was a child’s picture. He raised his eyebrows at Bilal.

  “It’s from Tahira. To cheer you up.”

  Razaq looked more closely. The thicker lines were made of what appeared to be little squiggles, but he could tell they were letters. He grinned at Bilal.

  “Just a bit of scribble, but she said it would brighten your eyes.” A knowing look came over Bilal’s face. “I can see it worked. You like her, don’t you?”

  Razaq gave the stock answer to such a question: “She is like a sister.” He shrugged, hoping Bilal would let it drop.

  “Don’t let Mrs. M know,” Bilal said, as he left.

  It is too late for that, Razaq thought. Mrs. Mumtaz knew from the beginning. How else could she keep such a hold over him?

  Razaq fingered the picture made up of Urdu squiggles. How clever Tahira had been. No one would know that she could write or he could read. It took him a while, but he worked it out. Tu kia hai, she had written, how are you? Kash ke hum millen, I wish we could meet. The note did as much for Razaq as the dream had.

  Was it just a dream to think he and Tahira could marry? Could they even have a normal relationship? He thought of his parents. He was old enough to realize his father had shared his mother’s bed sometimes; had heard their low whispers when they thought he was asleep, his father’s chuckle, their embracing. That was what he wanted with Tahira, but would everything that had happened to them flood their minds every time they tried to dance?

  He groaned—he had to think of a different word. Love. Could love cover the dirt and shame he carried daily in his mind and body?

  Chapter 28

  When Majeed did visit, Razaq wasn’t even expecting it. He had to think quickly for a few seconds who the man standing in front of him was.

  “Razaq? Are you okay?”

  “I didn’t think you would come.”

  Majeed stepped further into the room. He stood so close to him, Razaq had to steel himself not to step backward. He had decided to trust this man if he returned.

  Majeed’s smile was sad and he spoke softly. “I am truly sorry. There is always much to do. So many children . . .” He stopped and glanced back at the door. “I can bring some good men from the Protection Center—supporters who work against the trafficking of children—and a good policeman to take you to a safe place.”

  Razaq cut in: “There is someone else here.”

  “It works best if we only have one of you to worry about at a time.�
�

  “Then I want you to take a girl. She is only twelve—” Razaq checked himself, “Maybe thirteen now, but she is the youngest here.” He thought of Danyal, but shut his mouth. It would be good to get everyone out, but Majeed sounded busy. “Can you see her?”

  He paused. Would Majeed want to dance with Tahira once he saw her? She was very pretty. No, Majeed wore a different expression on his face than most of the men who came to the chakla. “Her name is Tahira.”

  “What about you?” Majeed said. “We could take you and come back for her. Someone wants to see you.”

  Majeed must mean his uncle, but Razaq clamped his heart shut. “I could not go and leave her here,” he said simply.

  “Then we will try to get you both out. She is not your sister?”

  Razaq shook his head. He knew it was possible Majeed wouldn’t bother with Tahira if he said she wasn’t, but he stood his ground. “I love her as much as a sister. We were in another house together.”

  Majeed’s eyes widened. “A training house?”

  Razaq nodded.

  “You can tell me where this house is?”

  Razaq hesitated. “Inshallah, after we are away from here.”

  Majeed smiled then. “Accha, I see you haven’t lost your spirit.”

  Razaq thought about that. Before the dream of climbing the mountain, he had felt like a captive wolf, frustrated and hopeless. Maybe a little of his spirit had returned after all.

  “You will know when we come,” Majeed said. “Just be ready.” He turned to face Razaq again before he opened the door. “It may take some time, so do not lose hope.” Then he whispered Tahira’s name.

  Razaq inclined his head to show he had said it correctly.

  When the door closed, Razaq didn’t know whether he had been clever or a fool. What if he had put Tahira into more danger? He pulled out the picture she had drawn. There was a space at the bottom. He folded the paper and carefully ripped that piece off. He should have asked Majeed for a pencil. Would Bilal bring him one? He thought about what he would write. He would have to do it as a picture, too. He would draw the mountains with his letters rising to the top, ready to soar off the paper. He would tell her Majeed was coming; to go with him.