Lost Riders

by Elizabeth Laird

  ‘It’s too big, but it doesn’t matter,’ Iqbal said indifferently when he emerged. ‘Come on.’

  It felt strange to be walking out of the stable. Rashid looked over his shoulder, worried in case they were doing something wrong, but Haji Faroukh, who was inspecting a camel’s nostrils, saw them pass and did nothing to stop them, and Salman came running to join them as they headed up towards the road. He was carrying a bundle of little white skull caps. He handed one to each boy, and positioned the largest carefully on his own curly hair.

  Rashid looked around curiously. Since he’d arrived at the stables he had only left them for the night exercises, following the same long track straight ahead to the race course. He hadn’t realized that the road on the far side of the palm fence led to a village. His eyes lit up with interest as the cluster of buildings approached. He could see a little row of shops, and the arches and minaret of a small mosque behind them. This place looked as if normal people lived here, like in the village in Pakistan.

  It took only a few minutes for the children to reach the first shop. Outside it, Salman told the three younger boys to wait, then went up the two or three steps into the shady interior and started talking to the man behind the counter. The four others stood silently outside, staring at the boxes of fruit displayed on the step, and peering in at the shelves inside, which were stacked with packets of biscuits, brightly labelled cans and boxes of sugar.

  A woman came out. She was dressed in black from head to toe and wore a black scarf on her head. When she saw the row of children, their eyes wide with longing, she smiled, then bent down and began to collect some beans that had fallen on to the step.

  Rashid couldn’t take his eyes off her. She was the first woman he’d seen since the lady had disappeared with Gaman Khan at Dubai airport. The sight of her made him feel happy and sad at the same time. He thought of Ma, and Zabidah, and home, and food, and comfort, and love.

  Unable to stop himself, Rashid ran forward.

  ‘Please!’ he burst out. ‘I’m looking for my Uncle Bilal and my little brother, Shari. Do you know them? Do you know where they are? No, I mean, it’s not Shari. They call him Farid here, but he thinks he’s called Shari.’

  She shook her head. She didn’t understand.

  ‘Please,’ Rashid began again.

  Salman came out of the shop.

  ‘What you doing, Yasser?’ he said, frowning.

  ‘I’m not doing anything bad,’ Rashid said guiltily. ‘I’m only asking if she’s seen my uncle and my little brother. Uncle Bilal, and Farid.’

  Salman rolled his eyes.

  ‘You silly. What she know?’

  ‘Ask her, Salman, please,’ begged Rashid. ‘Bilal and Farid. A little boy. Like Puppo. Just ask her, please.’

  Salman shrugged and said something in rapid Arabic. The woman, surprised, stepped backwards, then she seemed to realise how young Salman was, and what he was saying. She shook her head.

  ‘La,’ she said. ‘No.’

  But her eyes, resting on Rashid, were full of sympathy. She took an orange from one of the display boxes and put it into his hands.

  The shopkeeper appeared. He saw Rashid holding the orange and said something angry to the woman. She went hastily back inside. Salman spread out his hands apologetically and Rashid could see that he was trying to explain. To his relief, the man’s face softened, as the woman’s had done.

  ‘Bilal na Farid?’ he said, as if searching his memory.

  ‘La.’

  He clapped his hand on Rashid’s shoulder in a sympathetic gesture, and spoke again. Rashid understood only the last word.

  ‘Inshallah,’ the man had said. ‘God willing.’

  Salman said nothing as they walked on towards the mosque. There was no need. Rashid had understood that there was nothing to say.

  Puppo ran up beside Salman.

  ‘What did you buy? Was it sweets? Did you get some for me?’

  Salman pulled something out of his pocket and showed it to Puppo, whose face fell.

  ‘What’s that? You can’t eat that.’

  ‘Batteries, for Haji Faroukh,’ said Salman impatiently. ‘You think I have money for sweets?’

  The mosque was set back from the road down a short sandy track. On the corner was an auto-repair shop. A pick-up truck was in the forecourt, its engine hood propped open. A man was leaning over it, wiping something with an oily rag. As Rashid watched, he threw the rag down, let the hood fall with a clang and patted it with obvious satisfaction. Then he jumped into the driving seat and a moment later the engine roared into life.

  Rashid blinked at him admiringly, and made an instant decision.

  ‘That’s going to be me,’ he said to Iqbal. ‘I’m going to do that when I grow up.’

  Iqbal glanced indifferently at the truck.

  ‘A soldier’s better.’

  A few minutes later, they were already kicking off their shoes at the wide, white-pillared entrance to the mosque.

  Once or twice, Rashid’s father had taken him to the village mosque at home, but no one had bothered after pio had died. Rashid had forgotten what he was supposed to do. He hung back, watching the others, then joined the bustle near the taps, copying Salman, who was vigorously washing his arms, feet and face, and rinsing out his mouth. Then he followed them into the prayer hall, which ran along one side of the small paved courtyard.

  It was lovely here. Fans on long stems hung from the ceiling, stirring the heavy air with their powerful blades. The rug covering the prayer hall’s floor was soft and smooth to the touch. The men and boys sitting down in rows greeted each other quietly, or didn’t speak at all. No one was angry here. There was nothing to fear.

  A faint smell made him lift his head and sniff the air. Someone was wearing hair oil like the kind his father had sometimes used.

  Pio, he thought, trying to capture and hold a sudden memory of his father’s large hand holding his small one.

  He looked behind him, almost expecting his father to be there. Instead he saw a group of five or six boys enter from outside and go over to the taps to wash. After them came another group of four more. Iqbal had recognized one of them and was waving at him.

  ‘They’re all camel jockeys like us,’ he whispered to Rashid, leaning across in front of Salman.

  Rashid’s heart skipped. Perhaps Shari would come. Perhaps he only had to wait and even Uncle Bilal would be here. He stared at the entrance, willing them to appear, but the trickle of worshippers had slowed now, and there was only one last old man hobbling up the step.

  Salman nudged him to make him turn round. The imam, his head covered with a white shawl, had taken his place on the little platform at the front of the prayer hall ready to lead the prayers. He wore round glasses with lenses as thick as pebbles, and his beard was streaked with white.

  The prayers began. Rashid knelt, rose and bowed with the others, then settled down for the sermon. The imam cleared his throat and began to speak in heavily accented Punjabi.

  After the first minute or two, Rashid stopped trying to follow his high-pitched, quavering voice. A jumble of pictures bubbled in his mind. Pio. The lady at the shop picking up beans. Camels jostling in the pen. Pio. A bus station somewhere in Iran. Pio and Ma. Shari chasing a goat. The man at the auto-repair shop flinging his rag down with a flourish. The shadowy, frightening figure of Abu Nazir. Uncle Bilal showing off his mobile phone. Gaman Khan walking off at Dubai airport. Pio. Ma. Ma.

  I want to go home, he told himself.

  The thought turned into a prayer.

  God, help me. Take me away from here. Look after Shari. Please, God, help me to go home.

  As soon as prayers were over, Iqbal jumped up and ran to talk to the other boys. Rashid followed. He felt shy, but he was desperate to ask if any of them had seen Shari.

  He hovered at the edge of the group, listening. Only some of them were speaking Punjabi. Three or four, who looked African like Salman, were speaking Arabic. They were already dr
ifting out of the mosque and searching for their sandals in the pile by the door.

  Rashid found his own quickly, and followed them out into the lane. He tugged at Iqbal’s sleeve.

  ‘Ask them about Bilal and Sh— Farid,’ he whispered.

  Iqbal nodded and said loudly, ‘Hey, any of you know a kid called Farid?’ He pointed to Puppo. ‘He’s little, like him. He’s Yasser’s brother. This is Yasser.’

  The boys looked at each other and shrugged.

  ‘And Bilal,’ Rashid insisted. ‘Ask them about him.’

  ‘Our masoul’s called Bilal,’ one of the older boys said, frowning. ‘He’s really strict. He’s not your uncle, is he?’

  ‘Uncle Bilal’s here? You know him?’ cried Rashid, shocked with joy.

  Salman had come up and had overheard.

  ‘That Bilal, he not your uncle, Yasser,’ he said. ‘I know that masoul. Old man. Long time here in Dubai.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Disappointment made Rashid angry. He kicked out at a stone, and missed. It flopped over and buried itself in the sand.

  I’m useless, he thought miserably. I’ll never find them. I can’t even kick a stone.

  They had already reached the auto-repair shop. Rashid didn’t even turn his head to look at it.

  ‘Not to give up hoping for your little brother,’ Salman said kindly, coming up beside him and putting a friendly arm round his shoulders. ‘Plenty other uzba around here. Only some masoul let camel jockey go to Friday prayer. Your brother in another one, maybe.’

  Rashid looked up and nodded at Salman gratefully. Perhaps he was right. Shari might still be nearby. He only had to go on looking.

  ‘Race day you find him,’ Salman said. ‘Sure and certain.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Iqbal chipped in. ‘You see everyone on race day.’

  Amal made a face.

  ‘What are you grinning like that for? Anyone would think you were looking forward to it.’

  It was the longest speech Rashid had heard him make.

  ‘Don’t you like race day then, Amal?’ he asked curiously.

  Amal shook his head, then winced at the pain the movement caused him.

  ‘I hate it. I hate it. It’s the worst. It’s horrible. You’ll see.’

  Iqbal was teasing Puppo, bouncing a fist lightly and playfully on the little boy’s head.

  ‘Go on then, tell us what the sermon was all about.’

  ‘What?’ said Puppo, puzzled.

  ‘I’m asking you. You ought to know. You were staring at the imam with your mouth wide open all the way through. I thought you were trying to catch a fly.’

  ‘Puppo good boy,’ Salman said approvingly. ‘Listen to imam, learn to be a good Muslim.’

  ‘I wasn’t listening,’ Puppo said indignantly, as if he’d been accused of doing something wrong. ‘I was watching his glasses. Didn’t you see? They were falling down his nose. I was just waiting for them to drop right off.’

  9

  As time passed, Rashid’s hold on the memories of his old life at home became weak. They were unreal, as if they were part of a story that someone had told him a long, long time ago. It seemed as if he was being slowly cut adrift, floating into a new life, becoming someone else, the boy Yasser, and leaving the real Rashid far behind.

  At first he had looked up with excitement every time a car pulled into the uzba, hoping to see Uncle Bilal jump out of it. At the mosque, too, he would continue to watch the door in case Shari should appear with another group of boys.

  Slowly, though, he gave up expecting to see either of them. Constant disappointment began to snuff out his hope, until only a flicker of it remained.

  On the morning when Uncle Bilal finally came, Rashid was at work as usual, staggering under a heavy sack of fodder as he carried it from the store to the food trays in the camel pen. It was a Friday, and it would soon be time to set off for the mosque. Rashid didn’t notice his young uncle standing shyly by the fence, looking around, but when Bilal called, ‘Rashid, is that you?’ he felt a thrill run through him that raised the hairs on his arms and legs.

  ‘Uncle Bilal,’ he whispered.

  The words sounded strange and almost foreign. He didn’t dare turn round, certain of another disappointment.

  But Uncle Bilal was saying, ‘Rashid! Don’t you know me any more? It’s me!’ and now he was right behind him, and kneeling down, and catching him in a squeezing hug.

  Rashid stood frozen in his uncle’s arms.

  ‘Can we go home now?’ he said at last. ‘Can Iqbal come too?’

  Uncle Bilal didn’t seem to hear. He had released Rashid and was holding him at arm’s length, looking at him and frowning.

  ‘You’re so thin,’ he said. ‘Have you been sick, or what?’

  Rashid shook his head. He felt strange and was afraid he was going to cry.

  Uncle Bilal shook him gently.

  ‘Are you all right, Rashid? I wanted to come months ago, but I couldn’t find my way back here again. You’re miles out in the desert. Anyway, I hardly ever get the day off. In all this time, just think of it, only two lousy days off. And all the money I still owe Gaman Khan . . .’

  He had seemed unable to stop talking as his shocked eyes took in Rashid’s gaunt face and sticklike arms, but at last he broke off, lifted his hands, and shook them in the air.

  ‘Don’t they feed you?’ he burst out. ‘You’re all bones!’

  Rashid felt a dreadful wave rise up inside him, growing and growing, till it spilled out in a wild wail.

  ‘Take me home, Uncle Bilal! I want to go home!’

  Bilal reached out for him again, but Rashid pushed him away.

  ‘Listen, I’m sorry, all right?’ Bilal said, rocking back on his heels. ‘I didn’t know it was going to be like this. I really, really didn’t. I’d never have brought you if I had. I wanted to take you away at once when I saw where they’d brought you, but they wouldn’t let me. I can’t take you home, Rashid. You’ve got to understand. Because of the money. We have to pay Gaman Khan for the fares and visas and everything. Anyway, he’s got a contract with your boss. He told me. He came to find me, after I started work. He comes all the time to get my money. I begged him to let you go, but he wouldn’t. What can I do, Rashid?’

  The sobs that Rashid was fighting down made him gulp and heave.

  ‘Tell Ma,’ he gasped at last. ‘She won’t make me stay. She wouldn’t like me being here.’

  ‘I called her,’ Bilal said, dashing his last hope. ‘She was so shocked when she realized where you were. She wishes and wishes she’d never let you go. But what can she do? She can’t come here. Where would she get the money? She just told me to find you both and try to look after you. I will, I promise you. I’ll come whenever I can, now that I’ve found you again.’

  ‘Where’s Shari?’ Rashid managed to ask.

  Bilal looked surprised.

  ‘You mean you don’t know? He’s quite near here, in another uzba. You want to see him? I’ll take you if you like.’

  Rashid stared at him, silenced by this astonishing news. How could Shari have been close by all this time, without him knowing?

  ‘Hey! You!’ a loud, angry voice shouted. Haji Faroukh had seen Bilal and was coming towards them.

  Bilal hurriedly stood up, dusting the sand off his knees. Rashid felt him tense, as if he was preparing for trouble.

  ‘I’m this boy’s uncle,’ he said. ‘I came to visit him.’

  Rashid waited hopefully, expecting Uncle Bilal to make a fuss, to stand up to Haji Faroukh and tell him - tell him - he didn’t quite know what. But he saw at once that Uncle Bilal was no match for the masoul. Haji Faroukh towered over him. He was frowning, his eyes narrowed, sizing the younger man up for signs of defiance. Bilal’s mouth softened into a placating smile.

  ‘Please, Haji,’ Rashid said daringly, desperation making him cunning. ‘My uncle came to take me to Friday prayers.’ He saw the masoul hesitate. ‘It’s Friday,’ he added unnecessarily.r />
  Haji Faroukh, making one of his disconcerting transformations from frightening master to kindly friend, suddenly smiled and put out his hand to shake Bilal’s.

  ‘Good. Good. Tell Salman, Yasser, that your uncle’s going with you.’ As Rashid ran off to find Salman, he heard Haji Faroukh say, ‘You bring him straight back here after the mosque, eh? No funny ideas.’ And with dismay he caught the timid note in Uncle Bilal’s voice as he answered, ‘Yes, sahib. It’s just a visit. Just to see how he’s getting on. He’s a good boy, isn’t he? You are satisfied with him, I’m sure.’

  The other boys stared curiously at Bilal as they made their way down the familiar track towards the village and the mosque. He had smiled at them briefly and repeated their names, but it was Salman he looked at longest, and as they walked along the outer fence of the uzba, up towards the road that led to the village, he was glancing sideways at him, as if he was sizing the boy up.

  When the little group turned on to the road and began heading towards the village, Bilal stopped and put a hand on Rashid’s shoulder, drawing him close.

  ‘You go on,’ he said to the others. ‘Yasser and me, we have to go somewhere.’

  Salman had been walking ahead but he stopped, his eyes widening with alarm.

  ‘No, ji. We go to mosque together. Haji no like you going another place.’

  Bilal frowned. The masoul had humiliated him back in the uzba. Now he wanted to seize his chance to win back some authority.

  ‘Don’t argue with me,’ he said sternly. ‘Rashid is my responsibility.’

  ‘Who’s Rashid?’ Puppo asked, bewildered.

  ‘I’m Yasser here, Uncle Bilal,’ Rashid said, embarrassed. He could see that Salman was offended and wanted to make a fuss. ‘It’s all right, Salman. Uncle Bilal’s found Shari. We’re going to see him. Please, Salman. I’ve got to see my brother. I’ve got to.’