Lost Riders

by Elizabeth Laird

  ‘Syed Ali gave you something, didn’t he, Iqbal?’ Puppo asked, making a quick recovery.

  ‘Yes!’ Iqbal grinned and pulled a bank note from his pocket. ‘Fifty dirhams!’

  ‘But you didn’t even win.’ Rashid was stung by the triumph in Iqbal’s face.

  ‘No, but I made Nanga run really, really well, and third place is still good. They didn’t think she’d ever beat Khamri. She’s not bad, Nanga. I don’t mind riding her so much. She doesn’t jerk about all the time.’

  He sat back on his heels, emanating satisfaction.

  He doesn’t care, Rashid thought sourly. I got beaten because of him and he doesn’t even realize.

  He stood up. His head was swimming and it took him a moment to find his balance.

  He knew suddenly that he wanted nothing more than to be on his own, to lie down and rest for a long, long time. As he stumbled away, he heard Puppo say, ‘What are you going to buy with your money, Iqbal?’ and Iqbal answer, ‘I’m going to save some, and buy a bag of marbles with the rest.’

  14

  Now that the racing season was in full swing, the pattern of life changed on the uzba. The boys were driven even harder during the day, and the nighttime exercise was more intense. The camels were fussed over, groomed and medicated. Every change in them was monitored. If Shahin slipped on loose sand, her hip was carefully watched for signs of strain. If Duda’s long-lashed eyes began to run, the vet was summoned at once, and an anxious conference took place in the pen. No one noticed how haggard the children were, how tired and thin. No doctors diagnosed their stunted growth, or complained of their poor, meagre diet.

  Rashid approached each race day with a mixture of excitement and dread. He was still afraid -horribly afraid - of the crush of camels and the fearsome starting barrier, but now he wanted to pit himself against the others and win. He hadn’t yet come first, though on his fifth race day he was placed second in the last big event of the afternoon, even earning a tight smile of congratulation from Abu Nazir. Luckily, he hadn’t been riding against Iqbal, who had been sent off in the truck with several of the uzba’s camels to another race course for the day.

  Rashid had confused feelings, too, about seeing Shari. The sight and smell and feel of him gave him a painful sense of home. His memories of Pakistan were beginning to fade, like drifts of morning mist burned off to nothing by the sun. He didn’t welcome them now. It was easier to forget. Part of him longed for Shari, but the sight of his little brother’s wretchedness made him feel ashamed and helpless at the same time, and unfairly angry with Shari too.

  The guest house was kept spruced up for the racing season. The crimson carpets were swept daily, the cushions plumped up around the walls, and supplies of sweets and biscuits kept in for visitors who might call.

  Syed Ali’s racing friends came often. They would arrive in a flurry of big white cars, their long robes pristine, and settle in the guest house with their host for coffee and conversation, or follow him out to the camel pens to inspect his star racers’ finer points.

  No one was expecting a visit from the big sheikh, and when he arrived in his convoy of royal vehicles, and strolled into the uzba, with Syed Ali beaming by his side, there was near panic. Salman rushed to sweep sand from the guest house steps. Haji Faroukh shouted orders at the two extra hands who had been hired to help out in this busy season, and the boys peeped out from behind their sleeping shed, their mouths open like baby birds’ at the sight of so much splendour.

  Salman saw them and beckoned urgently. Iqbal was sent to take charge of the visitors’ shoes and line them neatly outside the guest-house door. Amal was dispatched to fetch water from the tank. Salman thrust a tray at Rashid, and told him to take it into the guest house.

  Syed Ali took it from him with his own hands, and set it down in front of the princely visitor, who had arranged himself comfortably on the central cushions and was looking around at Syed Ali, Abu Nazir and his retinue, smiling but watchful.

  ‘Wait outside,’ Salman whispered to Rashid as he emerged. ‘Be ready. Maybe they call for something.’

  Rashid, his toes still remembering the unfamiliar softness of the carpet, settled himself cross-legged outside the door and waited for further orders. From inside the guest house came the rattle of cups and the splash of poured coffee as Syed Ali served the sheikh.

  There was silence as everyone sipped their drinks, then the sheikh cleared his throat.

  ‘A very good day yesterday on the course. I’ve never seen such fine camels. Top speed forty miles per hour! Quite remarkable. Lovely to watch. My grandfather would have been proud and amazed to see it. And our young men so involved in the sport. Excellent to keep the tradition alive. Camel racing might have died out altogether, you know, if we hadn’t brought it up to date.’

  There were respectful murmurs from the room full of men.

  ‘How many camels are you racing this year, Syed Ali?’ the sheikh asked.

  ‘Ten so far, Your Excellency.’

  ‘And have you tried water exercises? We’ve found it very beneficial. We’ve constructed a special pool and walk the camels through it. The water reaches shoulder height. Very strengthening for the leg muscles.’

  Rashid stopped listening. His Arabic still wasn’t good enough to pick up more than the gist, and anyway the endless talk of camels bored him.

  It’s all grown-ups ever talk about, he thought. Camels, camels, camels.

  He became aware that Salman was signalling to him from the kitchen and ran over to him. Salman put a pot of fresh coffee into his hands.

  ‘Carry carefully, Yasser. Don’t you drop it.’

  Rashid carried the pot back to the guest house. He hesitated at the door, feeling shy of the roomful of important men, but Syed Ali had seen him and he had to go inside. Syed Ali took the coffee from him and nodded to dismiss him. Rashid returned to his post outside the door.

  ‘How many boys do you keep?’ the sheikh was asking.

  Boys? That means us, Rashid thought.

  He started listening more carefully.

  ‘Four, sir.’

  ‘All from Pakistan?’

  ‘Yes, all of them.’

  The sheikh sighed.

  ‘You should see the problems in Pakistan! The poverty!’

  What problems? thought Rashid, ready to be offended. What’s poverty? There’s nothing wrong with Pakistan.

  ‘We’ve built roads, clinics, an airport over there,’ the sheikh went on. ‘And given work over here to thousands. Good paid work even for our little jockeys! What they earn is sometimes their families’ only income.’

  Rashid frowned, trying to understand.

  Are they really paying for us? he wondered. Are they paying Ma? The idea made him feel proud, but angry too.

  The sheikh sighed again.

  ‘But the system isn’t working. Too many injuries to the boys. Even deaths! You, Syed Ali, obviously take excellent care of your children. No accidents have befallen them, I’m sure.’

  There was a moment’s awkward silence, then Abu Nazir said jerkily, ‘Thank God, all our boys are safe and well.’

  ‘Excellent!’

  Rashid, his ears acutely tuned, detected the hint of a threat in sheikh’s voice.

  ‘As you all know,’ the smooth voice continued, ‘it’s impossible to regulate everything. We’ve done our best! All of us want to win trophies. Why else would we race camels? But there’s carelessness. I’ve seen it myself. The boys in some uzbas are not treated well, and it’s causing a scandal. On an international scale. Stories are appearing in the foreign press. The government is very concerned about it.’

  Rashid was frowning, trying to understand. In the guest house, no one was speaking. A few awkward coughs filled the silence.

  ‘But as Your Excellency knows,’ Abu Nazir said at last, ‘camels must have jockeys, and the lighter the jockey the better the chance of winning. You said yourself, these boys are escaping from terrible poverty at home. Here they’re h
oused and fed and their parents paid . . . Anyway, it does no harm to work them hard. Little monkeys, most of them are, up to mischief all the time. They take every advantage, given the chance.’

  Rashid couldn’t see Abu Nazir’s face, but he could picture the impatient look on it.

  He’s saying bad things about us, he thought.

  Monkey, I know what that means. He’s a monkey, not us.

  ‘Rogue elements! The need to avoid scandal!’ The sheikh had ignored Abu Nazir’s interruption. ‘Unscrupulous traffickers! Illegal entry to Dubai! It’s going on under our very noses. It’s got to the point where the publicity is proving harmful to our reputation and our tourist industry.’

  ‘But what are we to do, sir, if we can’t race with little jockeys?’ asked Syed Ali, sounding genuinely puzzled.

  ‘Heavier jockeys will kill the sport,’ Abu Nazir burst in, unable to conceal his anger. ‘It’ll make everything impossible!’

  Rashid leaned forward and gripped his knees as he struggled to understand.

  What was Syed Ali saying about no little jockeys? And who did Abu Nazir want to kill?

  Daringly, he craned sideways so that he could peep round the doorpost into the guest room. The men leaning on the cushions round the walls were staring in respectful consternation at the sheikh, but he was looking pleased, as if he was about to spring a surprise.

  ‘Robots,’ he said.

  At that moment, Abu Nazir looked up and caught sight of Rashid’s curious face. He scowled. Rashid jerked back smartly out of sight. He saw a movement out of the corner of his eye. Salman was beckoning to him again. He ran across to the kitchen.

  ‘No more you need to stay there. I watch out for them. Others rest time. You go play now.’

  ‘What’s a robot, Salman?’

  ‘Robot? How you think I know? No Arab word.’

  Rashid ran back to join the others. They had been kicking the ball about but they had flopped down in the shelter now and were playing with Iqbal’s marbles.

  ‘Are they going soon?’ asked Puppo. ‘I want my supper.’

  ‘They’re talking,’ said Rashid. ‘About camels, as usual. But about jockeys too. And a word like “robot”. I didn’t understand.’

  ‘Robots? I know about them,’ Amal said surprisingly. ‘They were talking about robots in the hospital. They’re machines. They can do stuff people do.’

  ‘What, you mean like eat and sleep and talk?’ said Iqbal.

  ‘And play football?’ gaped Puppo.

  ‘No, silly. Work. They do the work so people don’t have to.’

  ‘It would be great if we had robots here, to clean up after the camels,’ said Iqbal.

  ‘And take them out for exercises,’ said Rashid.

  ‘And ride them in races,’ said Amal. ‘Robot camel jockeys. That would be the best.’

  A little while later they heard car engines start up and ran out to watch the guests leave.

  ‘Look at Haji,’ whispered Iqbal. ‘If he bows any lower, he’ll bump his nose on his knees.’

  The sheikh was saying courteous farewells at the door of his car, which his driver was respectfully holding open for him. He caught sight of the row of staring boys and said something to Syed Ali, who unwillingly beckoned them over.

  Too scared to move, the boys stood still, looking sideways at each other.

  ‘Come, come!’ called Haji Faroukh, his smile of beaming benevolence at odds with the anxiety in his eyes.

  The boys approached the sheikh, but didn’t dare raise their eyes to his face. They stood in front of him, staring down at his feet.

  ‘Are you happy here, boys? Well treated, eh?’

  They nodded dumbly.

  ‘And I’m sure you enjoy the racing?’

  Images flashed through Rashid’s mind: the screams of falling children, the little boy dragged along by the rope, the ghost of Mujib, the thirst and hunger and exhaustion. They rose like monsters inside him, wanting to burst from his mouth. But Abu Nazir, Syed Ali and Haji Faroukh were ranged behind the sheikh, and their eyes were sternly on him.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he chorused with the others.

  ‘And you hear from your people at home? They’re making good use, I’m sure, of the money you earn.’

  ‘What’s home?’ said Puppo, bewildered.

  Most of the adults laughed, but the sheikh was frowning as he was driven away.

  15

  Race days now came with horrible frequency. The boys had been living already on the edge of hunger and exhaustion before the season began, but on race days they were pushed almost beyond what they could bear.

  In his heart, though, Rashid knew that he felt different from the others. His dread of racing was mixed with excitement and, increasingly, with confidence. Puppo and Amal faced each event with only one aim - to stay mounted and avoid injury. They had no expectation of winning. Iqbal, though he hid it well, was also terribly afraid, but like Rashid he longed to win. When Iqbal and Rashid were pitted against each other in the same race, they competed fiercely, sometimes one pulling ahead, and sometimes the other.

  The first time Rashid won a race, he felt a surge of joy. The race was an important one, the course crowded with the cars of camel owners and their guests. There were even foreign tourists watching at the starting point. The prize - a state-of-the-art brand-new Land Cruiser - was awarded to Syed Ali. Beaming with his camel’s success, he handed Rashid a tip of 300 dirhams, and even Abu Nazir congratulated him, while Haji Faroukh patted him kindly on the back, and let him off the chore of watering the camels.

  Rashid was afraid that Iqbal would be upset by all the attention he was receiving, but Iqbal shrugged it off.

  ‘Who cares about winning races anyway?’ he said. ‘You grow out of that sort of thing. Anyway, you only won because you’re lighter than me.’

  Rashid nodded, understanding that there was more than there seemed behind Iqbal’s words. Another shift was occurring. They were no longer hero and follower. He was Iqbal’s equal now.

  Apart from Syed Ali’s camel-owning friends, the only other routine visitors to the uzba were the delivery men who came with supplies, and sometimes masouls from other uzbas, paying visits to Haji Faroukh.

  Uncle Bilal had visited the uzba only one more time. Unfortunately, he had come on a race day, and Rashid had been out at the course. The person around had been one of the temporary hands.

  ‘A man came to see you,’ he told Rashid when the boys returned, silent with fatigue at the end of the day. ‘Said he was your uncle.’

  Rashid had felt a brief flaring of joy, snuffed out by disappointment, but he had soon forgotten. Uncle Bilal belonged to another life, another world, which was disappearing now.

  Late one afternoon, a visitor stood hesitating in the entrance. His eyes darted around the open, sandy compound, then he approached Salman, spreading out his hands pleadingly.

  The boys, on their way to answer a summons from Haji Faroukh, ignored him, but then came a woman’s piercing cry, a sound so rare and unexpected that they stopped in their tracks to turn and stare at the dishevelled creature who was running towards them.

  I’ve seen her before, and the man, Rashid thought. At the race track. Looking for a boy.

  ‘Puppo!’ the woman was crying. ‘My little Puppo!’

  Her scarf was falling back off her hair. She reached the group of boys and slid to her knees in front of Puppo, holding out her arms. The man was running towards them too.

  ‘It is! It’s Ejaz!’ he was gasping, looking at Puppo. ‘Ejaz, don’t you know me? I’m your father! I’m your pio!’

  Puppo stepped back in alarm and hid behind Rashid, grabbing his shirt and holding it bunched in his fist.

  The woman lurched forward, reaching for him.

  ‘Puppo, it’s Ma! I’m your ma! We’ve found you at last! Come here, darling. Don’t be afraid of me.’

  But Puppo only edged further behind Rashid, clinging to him more tightly than ever.

  Hea
vy footsteps approached.

  ‘What’s this?’ Haji Faroukh said sternly. ‘Who are you?’

  The man had been circling behind Rashid, about to prise Puppo away, but he started, and as he turned to face the older, heavier man, Rashid saw that he was blinking rapidly, and was staring up at Haji Faroukh with frightened, pleading eyes.

  ‘This is our son, sir,’ he said. ‘We’ve been hunting for him everywhere.’

  The woman was trying to touch Puppo and draw him into a hug, but he turned away from her, smacking at her hand.

  Haji Faroukh’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘What do you mean, he’s your son? Anyone can come in here and—’

  ‘Ejaz, his name’s Ejaz,’ the man interrupted eagerly. ‘Mohammed Ejaz Rasoul.’

  ‘No he isn’t,’ Iqbal declared. ‘He’s Puppo.’

  ‘His baby name,’ the man said. ‘Look, his mother knows. That’s what she calls him. It’s what we called him at home.’

  ‘This boy’s official name is certainly not Ejaz,’ Haji Faroukh said coldly. ‘You’re troublemakers. Get out of here before I throw you out.’

  ‘No, no, sir, please, listen!’ The man was almost weeping with distress. ‘The agent gave him another name, for the passport. We only heard later. He wouldn’t even tell us what it was. He cheated us! Everything he said was lies! We didn’t know he was going to do this kind of work. This is our son, sir. Can’t you tell? Look at him!’

  ‘Puppo, come here,’ barked Haji Faroukh.

  Trained to obey that voice, Puppo edged reluctantly out from behind Rashid.

  ‘Do you know these people?’ demanded Haji Faroukh. ‘Are they your mother and father?’

  His tone told Puppo the answer he was supposed to give. He didn’t even look up.

  ‘No, Haji,’ he whispered.

  ‘What’s your game?’ Haji Faroukh snarled, turning on the couple. ‘You get hold of boys, do you? Sell them on? I’ve heard of people like you.’

  ‘No, no, we’re not like that!’ Tears were choking the woman’s voice. ‘We only want our son. Look at him. His eyes! The cleft in his chin - just like his father’s. Lift your shirt up, Puppo. Show the gentleman the spot on your shoulder you had when you were born. And the scar above the elbow where you burned yourself on the teapot. Show him, darling, for Ma. Lift your shirt!’