What You Are

by M G Vassanji

  —How about this one! Lateef grins toothily, pressing another link on the iPad as though it were a physical button.

  It’s late and Nasir thinks he might have to spend the night here at Lateef’s. Two bottles of wine consumed, and on to a bottomless nightcap of the Glenlivet he bought at the duty-free. Outside this Sunday night, the wind howls and whistles, rain falls in large, audible teardrops. They say Estoril has had one of the worst Aprils in memory, but it’s proved a blessing to the farmers after the previous summer’s drought and forest fires. Therefore the cheap espinafre. Spinach soups, spinach empadas.

  Dum bhar jo udhar munh phere…

  —Wah. Now there’s a heart-wrencher.

  O moon, look away for a breath, so I can love him, say a thousand words of love to him.

  —Truly one of the most beautiful songs, Nasir says dreamily. —The old Hindi film songs just break your heart, don’t they, especially over a Scotch. Acknowledged poets, even famous ones, wrote the lyrics, not like the hacks employed today. All rhythm and no emotion these days.

  —Bum-swinging.

  —Crotch-thrusting.

  They pause to reflect. Finally Lateef says,

  —I would accompany my mother to the Ladies’ Show at the Odeon once a week. Zenana Show, it was called. Every Wednesday afternoon, packed with women, all dressed up. The air thick with perfume. Even for this women’s gathering, a boy often chaperoned his sister or mother. How they cried at the tragic scenes. Sobbing all around. Even when they knew it would all turn out happily. More tears at The End. They would come out from the cinema dabbing handkerchiefs to their eyes—

  —As though emerging from a funeral, my dad would say, Who died today? I’m still alive! Unfortunately, my mother would murmur in reply. Not that they were unhappy. The usual banter. Even a lame or a blind husband is still a husband, was her wisdom after his death. A woman needs a husband. She missed him. He died suddenly.

  Lateef peers at him, looms across the table, and again brings down the crooked forefinger upon his tablet to continue the magic. Aladdin’s lamp. Nasir smiles.

  Ghara aya mera paradesi…

  My stranger comes home…Nargis celebrating the arrival of her lover in Awara, one of the great Indian films.

  —My favourite actress, Lateef says of Nargis.

  —I think mine too. One day in Toronto, on my way home from the airport, the limo driver turned out to be a Russian and he sang me a song from Awara—in Russian! Awara hoon…I’m a wanderer. Like a star in the heavens, without a family or a home, without someone to love…

  Lateef nods, turning towards the balcony, the scattered lights and the dark sea in the distance. Absolute silence, but for the steady rain.

  Who’s in his mind now? His college sweetheart in London, later his wife, died fifteen years ago in an accident at four a.m. on her way to the prayer house. Every evening at seven he lights a candle to her memory on the mantlepiece in front of her photo. The son in the photo beside hers died of leukemia. A private shrine. Believes in nothing else. Gutted. Sold off everything and moved here to Portugal. Nothing left but carefully managed fun. And memories.

  Lateef in another exaggerated motion stabs at a link.

  Anarkali, as the final brick shuts her in, and the mortar is applied, sings: Yeh mazar mata kaho…Don’t call this my tomb, it’s my palace of love. A shrine.

  Nasir thinks of Zaynab.

  It was all books those days. They had just graduated. She gave him her copy of Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee to read. A detailed account of the displacement of Native Americans from their lands. For months it was on the bestseller lists. Shortly before, the place called Wounded Knee had been occupied by a group of protesters. It was the location of a massacre of Natives. Zaynab was passionate about world peace and human rights, had gone on peace marches in college, in Oxford, Ohio. A women’s college. He would tease her: Oxford, Ohio? He lent her his copy of Erikson’s book Gandhi’s Truth. He had met her in New York, where she was visiting Falu, her college mate and his friend. Falu and Nasir went back to high school days in Dar es Salaam. Zaynab came from upcountry Tanzania, from a town on Lake Victoria called Bukoba—the other end of the universe from him in Dar. The two girls had taken Falu’s large bed in her studio on Twenty-Fourth Street, Nasir the sofa. Laughing, they called out to him in the dark, Poor you, feeling left out? You can come and share the bed, but no mischief! He had retorted, self-righteously: I’m not Gandhi. When he woke up, they were already awake, whispering, listening to the sentimental old film songs, crying shamelessly. Nostalgia or love? He dared not ask. I’m not Gandhi. He should have jumped in with them. An old regret, a road not taken. She’d then moved to Manhattan, two streets up from Falu, and awaited her green card.

  They spoke almost daily on the phone after that. He and Zaynab. Cost him a good portion of his monthly graduate student stipend. But she was it for him, just right. Soft, dark features. Shoulder-length hair. What other girl from their background would discuss Mandela and Gandhi with passion, and Lenin and imperialism? And Truth? She had a beautiful voice.

  Yeh zindagi dene waale soon…Giver of life, listen. I desire nothing more from your world.

  Lateef’s long face grins toothily at him.

  —It’s the first song I remember, Nasir muses. —From when I was about four. My sisters tell me I would sing it to myself when I was yay high, running around in shorts.

  He thinks, What would a four-year-old see in that tragic song? Is that single song responsible for my disposition? Or the other way round? It comes to mind when Zaynab comes to mind. It was also one of the songs on the cassette she and Falu were listening to, so tearfully, that day in bed in Manhattan. The tears might as well have been for him.

  —Remember this one? Lateef breaks in. He is older than Nasir, though they grew up on the same street.

  Eena meena deeka! dai dama neeka!

  Gibberish from India’s copycat rock ’n’ roll phase.

  —Aasha! Lateef calls out, naming the film before Nasir can.

  —I remember. It was my first film. My uncle Kassam, who was always broke, who failed serially at one business after another all across the country, had come into town and somehow got himself a pickup. A red Dodge, perhaps the only Dodge in town, when only a few people even owned cars. One afternoon he loaded the whole lot of us kids, his and my mother’s, into the back to go see a film at the Odeon. It was Aasha.

  —Your uncle.

  —Mother’s younger brother. He would dump his three kids on her and go somewhere upcountry to start a business. Nowhere he tried worked for him, but he knew how to enjoy life. And there would be some eight of us and a mother sharing our two-room flat.

  Lateef smokes. Despite warnings. Despite the recent heart episode, which he refuses to call an attack. Despite the frequent coughing fits. He’s lived fully…but there’s always more to live. Nasir wonders how much grief he’s stoked up behind that cheerful façade. And how much guilt deposited at the foot of that shrine on the mantelpiece. He says,

  —I still remember the licence plate of my uncle’s Dodge. DSK 999. Heads turned when it passed on the street. Kids would call out the number: DSK 999! He had to sell it, of course. And he went to open a shop in a village near the Mwadui diamond mines.

  —And he didn’t make a fortune, running a business close to the diamond mines? There were opportunities…

  —He didn’t know how. But he knew how to spend. Died a couple of years ago in Calgary of throat cancer.

  Lateef grins.

  —Missed chance.

  —He also took us to my second movie—Anari. You remember it?

  Lateef peers at the iPad screen and does a quick search; eyes light up, the crooked forefinger swoops down like a bird of prey upon the link.

  —Nutan starred in it. A very different look from Nargis. Too innocent. How beautiful they were.

&nb
sp; —They were actresses.

  —Not like the Hollywood ones. These were special.

  They fall silent. A break to reflect. Lateef says,

  —Was your mother beautiful?

  —I didn’t think so then, but I saw a photo recently, taken just after her wedding. Stunning.

  Lateef nods.

  —We didn’t realize how beautiful our mothers were. And those old photos—what quality!—they knew how to pose for them…classy.

  —But unappreciated.

  Another song.

  Sab kuchh seekha hamen, na seekhi hoshiyari.

  Learned everything but guile, sings a desolated Raj Kapoor in Anari. The honest fool, always the loser, except that he always won at the end. This was Bollywood, remember? The Scotch still has a quarter left. Should I leave now, Nasir wonders, takes a peek towards the balcony. The rain has eased, looks like, but Lateef has his finger up, there he goes jabbing at another memory.

  Bachpan ki muhobat ko…the love of your youth, don’t wrench it from your heart / if you do remember, say a prayer or two for me.

  —Who was the prettiest girl you knew when you were young?

  —In high school? There was a girl we called Sprite. Don’t know why. Tingled our blood, I suppose. Rozmin Ladak. She was beautiful and proud. Walked upright, aware of all those lustful eyes upon her.

  —Ladak. With a wide smile, Lateef pours them more Scotch; goes into a coughing fit, puts down his cigarette and lighter beside the tablet. He goes on:

  —Rozmin Ladak. Must have been her aunt, whom I have in mind. Shirin Ladak. Beautiful, outgoing. They were smart girls, the Ladak sisters and cousins. Shirin went to London, returned with some certificate or other. Secretary, maybe. She didn’t have to work, of course. And there was this guy called Shilo. You knew him? Before your time. He was rich but absolutely a loafer—playboy. Expelled from his English public school, travelled all over Europe, and finally returned to Dar.

  Lateef pauses, peers at his tablet. —Back in a minute. Gets up unsteadily on his feet, hobbles off to the bathroom.

  Lateef returns, takes a breather. Grunts.

  —You should use a walking stick.

  —Yes…I should. Have you seen Road to Morocco?

  —I think so. On late TV perhaps. There were a series of Road-to movies.

  —I played an extra in that one.

  —You’re joking. Extra?—how?

  Lateef holds up a hand, looks away dreamily for a moment. He turns to explain, with a smile. After classes in London one day, he was walking back to his flat in Holborn, hands in pockets, dead broke. A dark, Indian-looking chap stopped him. Do you want to act in a film?

  —Yes, I said. What film? Road to Morocco, he said. Bing Crosby and Bob Hope. Two pounds a day, you will dress like an Arab. But bring your own costume. I took a bedsheet.

  They laugh.

  —That’s some story. I should look for that movie.

  —I was one among a crowd of Arabs. You can’t see me in the film. But I’m there. But that’s not all. When this fellow, Gunasingh was his name, saw my girlfriend Shamim, he offered her a role on the spot. To play the sultana’s maid. The sultana was played by Dorothy Lamour. Ten pounds a day. We were rich for a few days. But in the film, Shamim speaks only one line.

  —I should definitely watch that film.

  Lateef leans forward, pushes on an icon.

  Ae muhobbate zindabad! Long live love!

  He sits back. —Did you have a childhood crush?

  —Several.

  —What happened?

  —All of them grandmas now. Concerned about God, grandchildren, and health. How to live longer. Pressure, cholesterol, and sugar—they have those numbers at the fingertips. And their husbands’. But what about this guy Shilo you were talking about?

  Lateef ponders. Puts out the cigarette.

  —Shirin Ladak started going out with this Shilo. The Ladaks were a wealthy family, as you know. There was a whole gang of these rich kids having fun…sports cars and so on. And then.

  —And then?

  —Shirin got pregnant. And the old man, her father, put a gun to Shilo’s head. Sort of. You’ll be driven out of town. Everyone will know about you. I know people, etcetera. So they got married. Shilo and Shirin.

  He pauses, continues. —And from then on, every Ladak girl, as soon as she hit sixteen, seventeen, maximum eighteen—Shirin had three sisters, and there were some cousins as well—was married off. The Ladaks were taking no chances.

  Aajaa, abto aajaa, mere kismat ke kharidar…

  Come, come now, guarantor of my fate…

  Lateef gives Nasir a curious grin. A curious, not a mocking grin, the latter observes.

  —How come you didn’t marry? You must have left a love or two behind, come on! Heartaches!

  —Yes.

  —And? Long time ago? One special person?

  —Yes. A long time ago.

  Lateef looks away, thinking. Then, more seriously:

  —Have you seen her since? Do you know where she is?

  He thought she might have lost it, the looks, the poise, like the other grandmas. But some months ago Falu came to town. Once petite, she’s obese now, with a double chin, attributed to diabetes, for which she injects herself constantly with insulin; but as chirpy as before. Always looks him up when she comes, never speaks of the past except this one time, when he’d taken her out for a fancy lunch. Guess where I’ve been? San Francisco! And guilelessly shoved a photo before his eyes. Do you remember her? And Nasir replied, drily, Yes, your friend from college, isn’t she? Falu smiled, nodded, Yes, it’s Zaynab. There were the two of them in the photo, Falu and Zaynab, standing against a low wall decked with flowerpots. Zaynab, still with the soft features, dark and slim as he remembered her; she’d certainly retained her allure…at least for him. I wonder what politics she has now. Mine turned towards safety, moderation…It was just like old times—Falu continued, oblivious—we caught up after twenty-five years! Kids, grandkids? No, Falu said. She’s divorced. But she said she did want kids, couldn’t have them. Didn’t want to adopt. What does she do? Teaches in a college. And he wondered: did these two recall that night in Manhattan?

  To Lateef’s question now, Nasir replies, —She’s in San Francisco, I heard.

  Lateef becomes silent. He won’t prod further.

  It was just after Christmas. His university had an independent study month, where he could undertake any project; his had been to go home to Dar for his brother’s wedding. His flight was from New York, and he’d come to stay a couple of nights before with Falu. Zaynab said she was off to Houston to see her parents, and they agreed to meet when he returned. Are you going to tell them about me? he asked. She smiled. How naive he had been. But what did we know yet about the verities of the world? Back in New York he stayed again with Falu, who had invited a few people over that evening for a dinner party. He called Zaynab, anxious to see her, she said why not wait until dinner at Falu’s. Why don’t I walk over to you now? Not now, she said. Why not? You’ll see. And he saw. There was with Zaynab that night, her friend Anar, and the guy: from Nairobi, UK public school, Harvard MBA, polished to a sparkle, Wall Street. As they sat around initially with their drinks, she would not meet Nasir’s eye, ignored his overtures. The discussion was politics, and to the others’ heated, practiced arguments the guy would eject his clipped, considered sentences. Logical, so they seemed then. You could not help but listen. They sat down for dinner, when Falu before her lamb entrée made her surprise announcement: the engagement of Zaynab to Riaz. Nasir gave a start. His face aflame, he gave her a hard look, but there was a glint in her eye that told him, Please shut up. That was his Wounded Knee. Sword through the heart. Later Falu informed him, Riaz is from her sect. You knew that? No, I didn’t. How could it matter? It did.

  —You win some, you lo
se some, Lateef says, bringing him back.

  —Or lose all.

  Not quite, but at the time, yes, he’d lost all. She wrote to him a few days later that she was marrying. And he replied with a pathetic You’ve-got-a-friend letter. She never returned his Gandhi book; he hopes she’s kept it, treasures it.

  Chalari sajani, ab kya soche…Come, darling, why think about it now.

  —Shall I call a taxi? Lateef asks.

  He empties the dregs into the two glasses.

  —Yes, please do.

  —Alvida, says Lateef at the door when the taxi announces itself.

  —Alvida, Nasir replies.

  Farewell, Anarkali’s last words as the last brick was shoved into place and the mortar applied around it. But, the story goes, the emperor—Akbar the Great—was a fair king. Having promised the girl’s mother a favour when his son was born, he now redeemed it. He had allowed an opening at the back of Anarkali’s tomb, so she could escape into anonymity. And the empire was saved from the repercussions of a dangerous liaison.

  Later in his apartment, Nasir looks up Road to Morocco. Three stars. But the year was 1942, when Lateef would have been a year or two old at most. He wonders. Memories.

  AN EPIPHANY

  It’s mine, this music. It’s gone, this life. What more could I want, in this warm, inebriated, elevated state…having reached a peak, all else is down. Through the glass wall, the narrow street dark and wet, the store lights dim and varied; a thin mist drifts along like a spirit. Inside here, half silhouettes in the dim light; two couples, Swedish, you can tell, and in the far corner a British couple, you can tell. Elderly. You could invent stories here, the Swedes, close yet not familiar enough, furtive escapees from humdrum lives. The British couple, familiarly quiet and huddled, let’s get away from all this, be by ourselves, or we’ll never do it; a second honeymoon, sort of. The young Nepali waiter flits by, smiles; knows me as a regular, a kind of Indian uncle, a mamu; comes by way of Bangalore and Malta. From a family of doctors, he says. Believable? Reminds me of times when we too, fresh from high school, would try anything, go anywhere for a future. Like when Alau and I tried England, landed in Manchester, expecting Immigration to be lax. Bounced off, did a tour of Greece instead, cursing the British all the way, and returned home. Where’s Alau now? In Pasadena, I heard. A space scientist. Even has a meteor named after him. My second glass of select red on the table, a side of olives. The music, 60s and 70s, Elvis, Sonny and Cher, Bee Gees, Beatles, Rolling Stones. Tom Jones. Herman’s Hermits…after all these years, here they are…All saying, Yes, you have lived. And I echo, Yes, I have lived and loved, been fortunate—no need to boast—went abroad, won awards—was rejected, recovered wiser and nothing matters anymore because it’s all passed. And I’m ready to call it quits, pick up the stumps, as they used to say after a cricket match.