The Scatter Here Is Too Great

by Bilal Tanweer

  We sat on the shore and watched the waves that came so slowly. There were few people there and the wind was cool. I wanted to go on a camel ride, but I knew that Baba did not have the money for that. Baba was quiet. I felt he was drawing the night without a sun on his blackboard again. So I snuggled under his arm and said, “Baba, let us draw even bigger camels than there are here.” I was so afraid to close my eyes because it was getting darker and I was afraid that new thieves might come. But I think it made Baba happy. When I drew the camels, Baba said, “Let us sit on these camels as well!” So I sat on my very, very big camel. I rode on it. And when Baba asked me, “How does it feel riding such a big camel?” I said, “It is like riding on waves.”

  Evening came. Baba and I sat on a bench and had roasted peanuts. Baba asked me if I was afraid of the thieves. I told him I was not. I wanted to fight them. He smiled. He told me never to fight thieves and if something like this ever happens “just give them everything without saying anything.”

  When we were returning home, we took the bus again. This time I ran and got on the bus myself without the conductor’s help. On our way, we passed that place where we used to have barbecue and where my chicken was the spiciest. I put my head on Baba’s arm and he put it around me and I was in the shadow again. As I closed my eyes, I imagined my blackboard as big as the sea on which I drew a ship—a big ship moving on waves like a camel. And then I saw the cloth with which the thief covered his face, which kept on slipping and revealing his face. I wanted to draw a sun in the sea because it was dark and I wanted to give light to the ship, but then I fell asleep. But I remember the ship looked like an empty place, like a shadow, and the cloth was fluttering in the wind like its flag.

  #54

  Sukhansaz

  AFTER THAT, WE ARE IGNORANT

  Yesterday, an old man, bloody idiot, surely off his rockers, got on the bus from the Lucky Star stop . . . tall in his height, some six-three, wore a new, bright red Coca-Cola cap that you get for free these days, bloody joker. His shirt, I think he had been reironing since the creation of Pakistan. His crumpled brown pants seemed straight out of the washing machine. He caught my eye as soon as he got on the bus. I pulled out my sketchbook and started to make his cartoon. The rectangular golden frame of his spectacles covered his long, thin face. Acha, at first he did not say anything, just took a seat, sat there, and looked around. Then turned to the guy next to him and without any, what’s-its-name, any hesitation questioned him, “Who are you?”

  At this, the guy was startled and he looked at him cluelessly. Obviously, bhenchod! Anyone would jump at such abruptness. . . . If someone asked you who are you, randomly, just like that, on the bus, and that too, a weird-looking old creep wearing a red cap and shirt with broken buttons, what would you say?

  But that guy was some bugger, he smiled and replied, “I am a human, thank you,” and shook the old man’s hand. Hehe. Bastard. Guess what the old man did? He just said, “Okay,” and turned away. I was laughing to myself from my seat, and seeing me, others also got interested in what was going on. I felt the old man was no less than a cartoon himself. He was staring at the back of the seat in front of him—like this—his face completely blank—like this. And then after staring for a few seconds he turned back to the guy he questioned earlier and said, “I am Comrade Sukhansaz! Happy to meet you!” and pushed out his hand toward him.

  Now whatever the hell is a Comrade! Most people don’t even know what these creatures are. There was a time when these Comrades and Reds and Lefties were a common breed you’d find on the streets, but that general, Zia, that dog of the CIA, he ate them all up. He liked blood, that dog. Where else do you think all this Islam and drugs and guns and bombs came into this city? They are a recent invention, my love. Americans gave him the money and guns and a carte blanche for drugs to fight the Soviets, and he fucked the country and this city for his jihad next door, thank you. Yes, you do find some Comrade occasionally, still bitten, his ass still bleeding and bandaged. All of them hate Zia. Ha-ha! I mean whatever but you’ve got to admire Zia for the treatment he gave them—jail, torture, lashing them in public, ha-ha! The joker even put his own name in the constitution! He used to see things in his dreams and made them his policies. Yup, Americans loved his dreams because he was screwing the Soviets and Comrades in them. So yeah, most Comrades are dead now.

  So guess what that guy said when the Comrade said “I am Comrade Sukhansaz”? He was some smart-ass, he returned a dumb expression, and asked: “Sukhansaz, that’s the word for poet. . . . But what’s your name? And what’s Comrade. . . . Is that a Muslim name?”

  Ha-ha-ha! What’s-his-name, Comrade, he turned red, even though technically that wasn’t possible because he was so dark, but oh, you should have seen his face—imagine a dry, savage brown flashing with color! At first Comrade Sukhansaz didn’t reply, just turned his face and stared at the back of the seat. After a few moments, he began blabbering in a low voice. “In this country, everything is either Muslim or non-Muslim, everything, everything. Is your shoe Muslim? This cap, does it go to the mosque with you? Does your spoon and knife say their prayers on time? Everything, bloody everything is Muslim or non-Muslim! Is this color a Muslim color? And then no one can talk about religion. . . . Names, now names are Muslims and non-Muslims!”

  That I-am-human fellow was acting like a smart-ass but really you should have seen his face, nervous like hell. I mean what do you expect when you are sitting next to this nut case? The Comrade turned to him again and said, “I am a poet. I was in jail. Yes, jail. For eight years. People love me. You know they love me. They know me. The whole world knows me.” He fell silent and looked around in the bus. He saw us sniggering, all thoroughly entertained.

  Praise be the worm up my ass, I shouted, “Haan, so mister Comrade Sukhansaz, let us hear something, some poetry, some of your amazing verses . . .” And oh brother, I tell you, the moment I finished my sentence, he sprang into action, as if he had been waiting. He stood up, and then holding his seat with one hand, like this, his fingers all twisted backward, started reciting poems, one after another . . . I cannot tell you. And he was so good! I remember a few lines:

  The argument between this lover with the other is who loves more. After this, both are ignorant.

  The tussle of this believer with the other is how to worship. After this, both are ignorant.

  The brawl of this politician with the other is how to gain power. After this, both are ignorant.

  It turned into a circus soon when a group of college students sitting at the back of the bus started to make noises in between his recitation. Each time Comrade Sukhansaz paused between the couplets, they made a sound: Dha Dha Dha Dhayyn . . . like those Hollywood action movie soundtracks. At first Comrade was confused, because some of us were actually enjoying the poems and praising them as well, but soon the boys began to rattle him. He ignored it a few times, but then suddenly, ha-ha! I remember he was saying: We will win against darkness too! And then he broke off yelling, “Abay O rowdy idiots! listen to what I am saying!”

  It was so funny—abay! listen to me! I am telling you about darkness and winning!

  For the boys, well, this was what they were looking for to begin with. It added to their fun and then they started purring and barking in between his verses. You got to love their timing! Imagine a dog’s whimper—aaoo aaoo aaoo—as if someone has kicked it in its gut—after both are ignorant.

  Comrade got really riled though. He stopped abruptly and took his seat, muttering under his breath. And then the whole bus broke into applause, clapping for him. I whistled . . . you know the one I whistle, the long loud one. I shouted, “One more Comrade, one more!” But he didn’t pay attention and continued to blather to himself in a low voice and kept staring at the back of the seat. Ha-ha! Old bugger. The man sitting next to me was looking over my drawing. He said to me, smiling, “Why tease the old fellow. Let him be. . . .” Well, I really didn’t give a toss about him or his poetry . . . for me, I ha
d to finish up my sketch. He was a God-sent cartoon on the bus. What more can a cartoonist ask for? I had to do him for my records.

  I was trying to get his nose right but he turned his face the other way. I waited but then I got impatient. I shouted, “Comrade, you old man, have you forgotten your poetry?” That really got him! He turned immediately and began shouting, “Who said that? Haan? Who said that?” And waving his fists, stood up from his seat. “I will break your bones!” The college boys were having a ball. They were laughing like mad. One of them barked again loudly, at which the old man let his lid fling off and he began shouting at the bus driver. STOP THE BUS! STOP THE DAMN BUS! I AM COMRADE! COMRADE SUKHANSAZ! STOP THE BLOODY BUS!

  Oh the bus conductor really panicked. He was already glancing suspiciously at the racket throughout, now he thought some fight had broken out or something. He brought out his steel rod from under one of the front seats and came directly toward the old man and waving it toward the old man, he said, “Babaji, why making noise haan? Where do you get off?”

  “Show me some civility! I am a poet! People know me! They love me!”

  The bus conductor was scratching his crotch, and seeing everyone laugh, relaxed a bit and said, “Babaji, just don’t make any noise. Take your seat.” He pointed the rod to an empty seat. “Your stop is about to come.”

  As soon as he finished saying this, someone shouted again from behind: Oye Chicken-saz! You crazy old man! Comrade turned to the students again, and having really lost it this time began shouting, “Fuckers! I have seen the likes of you many times! I have fought police with bare hands. I went to jail. Yes, jail! For eight years! People love me! Sisterfuckers! What do you know! I have given sacrifices for this country! I have fought against the exploiters, and you, you fuckers like you, don’t care about anything!” Everyone in the bus was in fits. The conductor then came to him, “Get off, babaji, your stop has come. Get to the gate, come on, come on hurry up!”

  As the old man moved toward the door, the boys kept up their chants:

  Fight me Comrade!

  Why are you scared, Comrade?

  We also love you Comrade!

  Comrade, you crazy old buffoon!

  Another poem, Comrade, please?

  Fight, Comrade! Fight!

  He got off at Cantt Station, right at the end of it.

  Yeah, just about ten minutes before the bomb blast. He was the closest person I knew who probably might have died there. Well, no, I don’t know what happened after that. No, I have his cartoon though. Here.

  TO LIVE

  I was sweating inside my mother’s car in that freak lane, saying to myself, Come on, come o-on, while glancing in my rearview mirror, searching for her female figure to hurry along in my direction. All I saw was a man of densely hirsute armpits uncomfortably seated on a chair too small for his awesome behind and poking a scratching stick in the back of his vest. Right opposite him, a little leftover fire nibbled at the heap of burned garbage, excreting a rancid smell I knew well from memory.

  It had been three minutes now and nothing had emerged from the corner of the lane. I hated every second of it. I tightly clasped the ignition key. You had to be prepared when waiting for a girl you’ve never really met before. I was in an old, clunky Suzuki FX, matchbox of a car—but I could’ve been off with it in less than three seconds, and on a bet, out of the lane in the next five, pedestrians and the incoming traffic notwithstanding. The car, if you want to call it that, was impossible to accelerate. But I had mastered that art as well—if you simply floored the gas pedal, no matter your timing with the gears and all, it steadied out at around 58 km/h mark, often dwindling to 55. I knew how to jack it up to 77-type and keep it there.

  All this was beyond my mother’s maddest dream, of course, this car being her lifeline. She had put her savings into it—that she had brought with her when she divorced my father. She treated the car like her ringdove; I thought it my fighting dog. I wasn’t allowed to touch this car, except in extraordinary circumstances. She was sleeping when I pushed the car to the end of the lane before starting it and getting away. I had been waiting a long time to see this girl, Sapna, I had worked hard on. I called her before leaving the house; she said she was ready. Planning inside my mother’s sleep schedule, I gave myself an hour to get back.

  It took me fifteen minutes to reach the spot where she was supposed to meet me. She had explained her location with the crookedness of someone who did not venture out of the house much. “It is the second lane on your right, from the roundabout,” she had said. Wrong. It was the third. I was saved the frustration because she had mentioned, just as a by-the-way, “Oh and you will see a metal-shiner’s pushcart. You will see pots and pans. He just stands at the corner of my lane. That’s how I remember it myself.” That’s how anyone remembers anything in this city, where most streets don’t have names.

  I turned into the lane with the pushcart which was neatly heaped with black pots, along with a smaller dump of gray, polished metalware. A man squatted on the pushcart, scrubbing a little pan. Her house was the third one on the left, the tiny white construction that occupied the tight space between two houses. For some reason, the house was named Patang, i.e., Kite. I spotted it without trouble. I slowed down the car to notice any suggestions of her through the windows. I didn’t see anything, except maybe a curtain move on the top room. But that could have been anything. I was supposed to take the first left into the first lane and wait outside an old yellow house with the black gate. She would come, she’d said, when she sees my battered blue FX pass by her house. That was the farthest she had come in showing her interest in meeting me in our one month of phone conversations—and I was happy for it. Well, girls are like that. At least at first. They need to taste blood for them to discover their hungers. She was a shy one and I was actually quite thrilled to meet her. Finally.

  Frankly, no matter how many times you did it, it was always nerve-racking to meet a girl for the first time, especially if you’ve already had intimate conversations on the phone. She was convinced I was madly in love with her. I was seeking to cement that impression, among other, better things. She’d seen me, of course—and probably liked what she saw too. We went to the same place for our after-college private tuitions that I had quit after two classes because I’d much rather spend that money on something more useful.

  I fancied her from the moment I walked into that drab tuition center—dark, dusty, windowless room, lit with fifteen tube lights and furnished with secondhand chairs and desks from which nails poked out, and worse yet: full of mostly boys who spent their school time working their asses off and still came to tuitions for extra practice. Girls were too few, and perhaps that was the real reason why I left that place. She was pretty, though. Wore a half-sleeved yellow kameez, had short hair that fell around her face when she bent forward to read, and she smiled all the time. Her deep square necklines made quite an impression on me, and I studied her intently for the two sessions I was in the tuition center. The second day she wore a khadi-brown and even shorter sleeves, and I scrutinized the back of her taut, fine neck for the whole hour and a half, and was left with no doubts I was going to try her. She was small and beautiful and perfectly packaged to be taken home and played with.

  I found it a little difficult to find her number, but I managed after bribing the registration handlers of that tuition center. I called her. “I know you, and like you too. I just want to talk. Make friends.” It confused her at first—or at least that’s how she made it look. It’s true, most boys don’t approach girls like that. They wait around, do idiotic things like passing snide remarks or acting loud and brash. She was suspicious at first, understandably, but then I gave her time, let her make the choices (at least that’s how I made it look to her), left my number and told her she could call me if she wanted to. She did, of course. And the rest, as they say, is history of one month ago. She had many questions for me, many sadnesses of her own to report. She lived with her mother and a dying father
(cancer, something like that) and her brother, who paid for them and routinely threatened to turn them or himself out of the house. Anyway, after a point, I didn’t care much about it. There wasn’t much I could do. I was her only male contact and I broke her loneliness in a way that was new to her. In less than a month, she had fallen in love with me, she believed. And I with her. As I said, the latter was her own subjective judgment with which I did not interfere.

  Well, that’s what it’s really all about if one thinks about it. Conversations. You want to be seen by others the way you see yourself. Boys think girls are looking for something that they could worship—and they go on adding weight to their six-packs and nine biceps and so on, and all they ever end up doing is stand posing in busy markets. Jerks.

  I took my eyes off the rearview mirror—I’d had enough of the man in the lungi who seemed to have located the spot of his itch and was resolutely scraping it—and was checking the fuel tank indicator when the door opened abruptly and a figure wrapped in a shawl jumped inside. “Let’s go, let’s go!” For a second, I couldn’t move. But the next moment with the invasion of a perfume I was assured. She was prepared, I was happy to note. The car screeched a little and in less than five seconds, we were out of her freak lane and on the main road.

  She sat diagonally on the passenger seat, facing me. My first thought was: Do I look all right? I hope I’m not sweating. Well, I was sweating. But so what, she loved me—and it was all right for a lover to sweat. She took off her shawl. I got a chance to look at her—and ah, that yawning neckline. She saw me looking at her and smiled. I smiled too.

  My plan was to take her to an ice cream parlor with an empty second floor at that time of the afternoon. We could improvise something there. And besides, I had little money and that was all I could afford. But then, I was a little nervous myself, and didn’t want to appear abrupt, so I kept silent. She didn’t say anything and we drove quietly. Finally, after a while, I broke the silence. “So, where should we go?” I asked.