Yaraana

by Hoshang Merchant

  ‘A member of the board comments, “Of course, we can, but only after we give you proper training.”

  ‘“I have kept that in mind, sir,” says Rashidul. “So if you do keep me at the headquarters, I have nothing further to add. But if you send me to the border, two possibilities come to mind. First, you may send me to the Pakistan border; second, you may send me to the China border. If you send me to the Pakistan border, I have nothing to add. For they cannot kill me, I have nothing to fear from them . . .”

  ‘“Why do you say this?” asks a member of the board, interrupting him. “Do you imagine that your being a Muslim will protect you from the Pakistanis?”

  ‘“No, sir, they are simply incapable of killing us. Instead, it is we who will clobber them. We don’t fear the Pakistanis. But if you send me to the China border, then two further possibilities occur to me. First, China may invade India; second, it may not.”

  ‘“Yes, you do have to be careful with china, it breaks easily,” one of the board members remarks.

  ‘“Yes, sir. Now, if China does not attack India, then there is nothing to say. But if it does, that raises two further possibilities. One is that I may die in action, the other is that I may not. If I don’t die, then I have nothing to say. However, if I do die, further questions arise: my body may be traceable, or it may not be traceable . . .”

  ‘“Why should it be untraceable?” a board member asks. “Bodies don’t exactly run away, do they?”

  ‘“Well, the Chinese could eat me up, for I’ve heard they are cannibals. Now, if they do eat me up, this does not bother me. But if they don’t and if my body is traced, then two further alternatives need to be considered. Either my body will be sent to my relatives, or it will be buried at the border. If my body is sent to my relatives, I have nothing to say. But if I am buried at the border, then I must take into account two further possibilities. Possibility number one, grass may grow on the ground covering my grave, number two, maybe no grass will grow. If no grass grows, I don’t wish to comment. But if grass does grow, again two possibilities arise . . . Cows may eat that grass, and then again, they may not. If that grass feeds cattle—if cattle devour that grass, then that solves the problem. But if they don’t get a chance to do so, then that grass gives rise to two further options. One, that grass may be used to adulterate some foodstuff, for I have heard grass is a nutritious alternative to various protein-rich foods. Two, one can use that grass to produce paper. If paper is produced, again two further options emerge: number one, writing paper; number two, toilet paper. If it turns into writing paper, I am unconcerned about its fate, in printed books or accountancy ledgers or what have you. But if it goes into toilet paper . . . I mean if I become toilet paper, then I have something to think about. Either a boy will use that toilet paper, or some girl will . . .” Here Rashidul Haq pauses. “Here I would like to may my last point. Sir, do I have your permission, please, to make it?” Rashid asks.

  ‘“Please don’t hesitate,” the board assures him.

  ‘“There are now two possibilities for me, sir,” Rashidul informs them. “These are my ultimate possibilities.” And my friend Rashidul Haq sighs.

  ‘“If some boy makes use of that toilet paper, then I have nothing to say. But if that toilet paper is used by some girl, I mean, if I become toilet paper and am of use to some girl, then there is one point I would like to make . . .”’

  At this point, Ashok pauses. He seems to stop and think how he should reveal what is on his mind.

  ‘What did your friend Shri Rashidul Haq say?’ I try to coax Ashok into speech.

  ‘He said nothing rash. He was quite unrushed as he spoke, Uncle. He ended by saying, “Gentlemen, then you really must give me this job. For ever since my boyhood, I have dreamed of a girl . . . it is her that I live for . . . and it is for her that I’d like to give up my life. Although I have never seen her, nor ever will, yet, in dying, in giving my life, I am able to be of some service, some use to her—this is the thought that gives me real satisfaction. If I get, not the sight of her, but at least the touch . . . that minimal contact with her is something you will please not take away from me, please let me have at least this, is all I request.”

  ‘The board then unaninmously declared: “Request granted.” It is on account of that girl that he ended up getting this job,’ Ashok concluded his narrative.

  Translated by Probal Dasgupta

  An Answer to the Female Liberationists

  For Kishwar Nahid

  Iftikhar Naseem

  Where were you?

  —You who screamed for women’s rights

  Why were you silent

  When I washed dishes:

  the eunuch going house to house?

  You should have understood

  Why did you not speak?

  I kept travelling

  city to city/alley to alley

  dancing and singing:

  amusement of the crowds

  a man in a saree . . .

  Where were you?

  Why were you silent?

  You should have understood

  Why did you not speak?

  And the man who tormented you

  was the man who tormented me

  I took on your disguises

  Your ruses and your vices

  You should have understood

  But you kept silent

  I kept washing dishes house to house.

  Translated from the Urdu by Hoshang Merchant

  Her/Man

  Iftikhar Naseem

  I am a two-in-one

  I use back and front

  I change sides

  I do not hide

  An in and out

  Or up and down

  Above/below: all reversible for me

  Only a man can complete a man

  Only a woman can complete a woman

  I am Man/Woman

  I am complete within myself

  Odivided ones

  Do not try to tear me apart

  Heal thyself!

  Translated from the Urdu by Hoshang Merchant

  ‘Nath’ of the Gay Prophet

  Iftikhar Naseem

  I will press your legs

  tired after hunting the beloved

  I will kiss your feet

  even when you reject my kind of love

  I shall wash them with my tears

  a male Magdalene

  and I shall follow your flag

  even if you deny me

  When wounded in battle

  I shall enter your tent

  and kiss every wound

  and body’s every pore

  and orifices wounding which themselves are wound-like

  And from dung I shall sprout roses

  when all have gone home

  after golden oratory

  I shall stay the winter

  burning pages of the Koran, if need be

  to keep you warm

  and since no boys, nor birds

  fall out of the sky these days

  I shall forage for physical bread for the physical body

  And when it’s found

  lay it at your feet as trophy

  When you’ve done with the repast

  I shall wash your dishes

  so that, just so that, you shall say:

  This man has done for me more

  than any woman, my own mother included.

  Translated from the Urdu by Hoshang Merchant

  Ifti Nasim, a gay Pakistani poet told me a gay tale from the Punjab:

  A gay man went to live in a village. He charmed everyone with his wit and his presence. They looked upon him as a radiant being among their drab lives. The boys all wanted to be transported with him to the city. The gay man kept his secret for months. One night, he was invited to spend the night in his favourite’s home. As is the Punjabi custom on summer nights, the menfolk sleep in the courtyard on charpoys. At night, the gay man fellated his favourite who on being startled
out of a dream screamed:

  ‘Run for your lives, villagers! A cocksucking devil is in town!’

  from Funny Boy

  Shyam Selvadurai

  Shehan. I felt amazed that a normal thing—like my friendship with Shehan—could have such powerful and hidden possibilities. I found myself thinking about that moment Shehan had kissed me and also of how he had lain on his bed, waiting for me to carry something through. I now knew that the kiss was somehow connected to what we had in common, and Shehan had known this all along.

  Sunday arrived and I was as excited as I had been during the spend-the-day mornings of my childhood. Before getting up, I lay listening to the sound of the birds in the guava tree outside my window. The moment I had waited for since Friday night was finally here. Soon Shehan would arrive, and after that anything was possible. I was excited but also scared. I worried about being inadequate to do what was expected of me. I feared that, once again, I would blunder into saying or doing something stupid, and Shehan would want nothing more to do with me; that he would think of me as stupid and naïve and turn away from me with disdain.

  When Shehan finally arrived, I couldn’t help studying him, as if I hoped to find my discovery physically manifested in his person. I led him to the back to show where he could park his bicycle, feeling shy and tongue-tied in his presence. I searched my mind for things to say, but nothing came. He must have sensed my uneasiness, for he, too, was quiet.

  As we came back towards the front of the house, we saw that Sonali and some of the girls from our neighbourbood were playing hide-and-seek. They invited us to play with them, and even though we were both too old for such a childish game, I agreed. The silence between us had now grown embarrassing, and I was afraid of what would happen if we were alone with nothing to do. Sonali was the catcher, and while she stood by the front verandah, counting to one hundred, we all ran to hide. I motioned to Shehan and he followed me. I led him down the driveway and into the garage, leaving the door a little ajar so that Sonali wouldn’t think this was where we were hiding.

  The garage was dark, except for the light that came in through the doorway. There was an old chest of drawers at the back, and we huddled up against the side of it. I was standing behind Shehan, and he turned to me. We grinned at each other delightedly, our earlier uneasiness forgotten in the fun of hide-and-seek. We looked towards the door and waited for Sonali to come and find us.

  In the silence of the garage, all I could hear was the sound of our breathing. Then the rhythm of Shehan’s breath changed slightly. I glanced at the back of his head. He was staring at the door, but I knew that he was no longer looking at it. I felt a dread begin to build inside me as I recognized what was happening. Shehan was giving me another chance to make up for my inability to act the last time we had been alone together. I knew I had to do something this time. It was my very last chance. Not fully understanding what my gesture meant, I reached out and put my hand on his hip. His breath caught for a second, then it escaped. He moved back against me. We were still. My heart was so loud in my chest that I felt it drowned out the sound of our combined breathing. Tentatively, like a bird approaching an outstretched palm, I began to inch my fingers towards his stomach, ready to remove my hand at the slightest indication of displeasure. Soon my hand was on his stomach, and now I could feel through his cotton shirt the rhythm of his breathing. I paused, not knowing how to proceed from here. As if he had read my thoughts, he covered my hand with his and squeezed it. Then he turned towards me and his eyes were bright in the dark. I waited. He leaned forward and placed his mouth on mine. He closed his eyes but I kept mine open, fascinated by the muscles of his face, the way they tightened and loosened with the movement of his lips. Now, I could feel his tongue against my teeth, a silent language that urged me to open my mouth. Before I quite knew it, I was responding to the prompting of his tongue. My eyes closed then and my mouth opened. As in a dream, I felt myself slipping into a blackness where all my thoughts disintegrated. The entire world became the sensation in my mouth and Shehan’s tongue probing, retreating, intertwining with mine.

  Then Sonali’s voice called out, ‘Ready or not, I’m coming.’ Shehan pulled away from me with the sigh of someone who has been awakened from a pleasant sleep. I opened my eyes, unsure if the world around me was a part of my dream or reality.

  Sonali’s footsteps were coming up the driveway towards the garage door. Shehan lightly placed his hand on the side of my face. Then he turned to the door. Sonali now appeared, standing in the doorway.

  ‘I’m here,’ she said tentatively, peering into the gagare. ‘I’m coming to catch you.’

  We didn’t respond or move.

  She stood there for a few moments longer and then, either because she was afraid of the dark or because she thought she was mistaken and we were not in there, she walked away.

  The moment she left, I drew Shehan back against me. He sighed and tilted his head up to me. Now I kissed him. I was aware of my mouth in a way I had never been before, aware of its power to give and receive pleasure. My hands, of their own will, began to circle his stomach and chest. I could feel the contours of his ribs and the indentation of his navel. He took one of my hands and moved it down to his trousers. After a few moments, he turned around towards me, and I felt his hands pulling at the buttons of my trousers, the elastic of my underwear. I began to fumble with his buttons, unable to open them. He had to undo them himself. Then he kissed me again and I was aware of the heat of his body against mine as he pressed me against the wall. I felt myself slipping into darkness, as if I were sinking to the bottom of a pool where only smell, taste, and sensation existed.

  It was soon over for me, however, and I felt myself being pulled back to reality, like a swimmer to the surface. I now became conscious of my naked backside pressed hard against the rough wall, bruising every time Shehan pushed up against me, of the squelching sound of Shehan’s body against my now wet stomach, his breath loud in the stillness of the garage, his hands on my hips in a painful grip. I looked at his face, his expression one almost of pain, and suddenly it was too much for me. I wanted him to stop what he was doing, but before I could say anything, his hold on my hips tightened and he began to thrust even harder against me. I struggled, trying to push him away from me, but he was oblivious. All at once he sighed deeply and became still, and I felt a wetness against my thighs. I stood motionless, helplessly angry, the wetness a violation. Shehan breathed in sharply, straightened up, and moved away from me.

  His expression now belonged to the Shehan I knew, for he smiled and winked at me conspiratorially. I wanted more than anything to be out of that garage, and I bent down and began to pull up my underwear and trousers. As I buttoned myself up, I could feel the wetness soak into my clothing. I began to walk quickly towards the garage door. Shehan was getting dressed and he called out to me to wait for him. I stood impatiently while he tucked in his shirt and buttoned his trousers. He walked towards me, and when he was right by me, he leaned over and kissed me. I drew away from him. His tongue felt like a damp towel.

  That night I dreamt of Shehan. I was walking down a corridor in school and, when I reached a door, I knocked and went inside. Even though it was bright daylight outside, the room was so dark I couldn’t see in front of me. I felt a presence before me and I knew that it was Shehan. His hands were on my hips now, moving slowly towards my stomach. They seemed bigger than I would have expected them to be. Then he pressed me against the wall and I realized that, though it was Shehan, he had the size and strength of the head prefect. I began to panic. I tried to escape from him, but he held me tightly against the wall. Now he placed his lips over mine and I couldn’t breathe. Purple spots appeared before my eyes and my lungs began to hurt so much I felt they would tear apart.

  I awoke gasping for breath. I sat up in the darkness, breathing deeply and thankfully. After a while, I lay back on my pillow. I looked up at the patterns the moonlight made on the ceiling, and I thought of the tender look on She
han’s face before he had kissed me, the feel of his body against mine after he had opened the buttons of his trousers. Then, to my horror, I felt the stirring of desire within me. I looked away from the ceiling, reminding myself about the loathing I had felt, the way my backside had hurt as he pushed me against the wall. But these memories only served to increase my desire.

  For the remainder of the night, I tossed and turned restlessly in my bed, torn between my desire for Shehan and disgust at that desire.

  Maybe, in the seven months I have known Shehan, Amma has come to accept him as a friend of mine.

  When we were in the garden, Shehan told me he had gone to our house looking for me and was horrified when he saw the burnt remains. A neighbour had informed him about what had happened and where we were. I nodded, not really wanting to talk about it. Shehan must have sensed this, because he immediately began to tell me about a film that he wanted to see and how we could go for an afternoon matinee after school next week, if curfew was lifted. He was trying to cheer me up, and as I listened to him talk, something occurred to me that I had never really been conscious of before—Shehan was Sinhalese and I was not. This awareness did not change my feelings for him, it was simply there, like a thin, translucent screen through which I watched him.

  August 27

  I have just returned from seeing Shehan. I can still smell his particular odour on my body, which always lingers on me after we make love. I remember the first time I noticed this. I had come home from being with him, and I was so nervous that others would detect it that, after putting my bicycle away at the back, I rushed to the shower. I smile to think about that, since now I am reluctant even to change my clothes for fear that I will lose this final memento.