Iqbal

by Francesco D'Adamo

  I saw Iqbal raise his hand and point toward the workshop. The policemen walked slowly and calmly across the courtyard, skirting the puddles. When they reached the door they looked in, then talked to each other and asked Hussain something. Keeping his respectful attitude, he began to speak very fast, turning every now and then to ask the mistress to confirm what he was saying.

  “What’s happening?” someone from behind asked.

  “I don’t know. I can’t hear what they’re saying,” I answered, “but I think Iqbal has accused the master.”

  “Accused him?”

  “You mean that now they’ll put him in prison?”

  “Quiet!”

  Hussain became very animated, making broad gestures with his hands. The policemen looked bored. One of them took a look at an old-fashioned pocket watch. Hussain took Iqbal’s hand and pulled, while Iqbal resisted, digging in his feet. Hussain gave his hair a rough caress, said something more to the policemen, handed Iqbal over to his wife, and gestured to her to take him into the house.

  “No!” shouted Iqbal. “No!” And then he said something more that was lost in a clap of thunder.

  “What’s happening?” the children behind me were asking. “What’s happening, Fatima?”

  “I don’t understand. They’ve given Iqbal back to Hussain.”

  “You mean they’re not going to arrest him?”

  I could see Iqbal yelling and squirming as he tried to free himself from the mistress’s grip, until they disappeared into the house.

  It began to pour. The policemen were in a hurry. Behind me everyone was talking, but I hardly heard them. I couldn’t believe my eyes.

  Hussain stuck his hand into the wide band he wore around his waist and brought out a big wad of banknotes. He counted out a small pile and gave it to the first policeman, then he counted out another small pile and gave it to the second. They both nodded, satisfied. Then they pulled at their mustaches, put the money in their pockets, and went away in the rain.

  Down on the steps to the Tomb we were all silent. Inside the house Iqbal kept yelling, but it was no use.

  The mistress came to send us back to work. We didn’t see Iqbal leave the house, but we heard all too well the bang of the grate of the Tomb as it closed over him.

  The never-ending nightmare of our lives resumed. We did all the ordinary things, but almost without realizing it. Wake up, go to the bathroom (my little window was closed forever, but I didn’t feel like jumping anymore anyhow), eat breakfast, work work work until it was time to go to bed. I cried, thinking of Iqbal locked down in the Tomb. I’d fall into a heavy sleep, then wake up suddenly to find that nothing was changed. Rainwater was dripping through holes in the roof. I was still a prisoner. Iqbal was still down in the Tomb. And this time we couldn’t get out to help him.

  I was afraid he would die.

  Hussain Khan wasn’t there. A few hours after the policemen came, he had left on a business trip. He had called Karim, in front of all of us, and said, “When I get back, I’ll measure everybody’s work. Remember! You’re the only one responsible for what they will have done.”

  “Yes, master! Yes, master!” Karim obeyed.

  “And as for that one down there …”

  “Yes?”

  “Leave him there.”

  “Yes, master!”

  Karim was terrified and he didn’t give us a minute’s rest, a single minute’s distraction.

  “You want to ruin me,” he repeated, “but I won’t let you. Get back to work! Work!”

  I lost track of the time. How many days had passed? Four? Five? Six?

  Iqbal was still down there.

  I know he’ll die.

  At night we stopped meeting. Nobody wanted to. What good was it? Before Iqbal’s arrival I had been resigned to my life. I couldn’t even imagine a different one. Iqbal had sown the seeds of hope in all of us. Now the disappointment was too strong. He wouldn’t be able to lead us anymore, and none of us had enough courage to rebel against Hussain.

  He’ll die, I thought, and I’ll be more alone than ever.

  Hussain Khan came back on a Friday, the holy day of rest for everyone—everyone, except us. He changed his clothes, greeted the neighbors who had come over to ask how his trip and his business had gone, then briefly took a look in at the workshop. He told Karim sternly that after lunch he would be measuring the work we had done. Then he went off to eat.

  We weren’t even allowed our usual break.

  “You have to go on with your work!” Karim shouted. He was all sweaty and upset. “Otherwise the master will blame me.”

  I worked and tried not to pay attention to my hunger. The pungent aroma of spicy mutton wafted over from the master’s house. I had eaten it two or three times. Back in my village the women prepared it for special occasions, like Choti Eid. It had to burn your tongue and throat, otherwise the men didn’t appreciate it. The meat was fatty and tasty.

  “Work.”

  And perhaps they even had sweets, fritters with fresh, soft cheese, rolled in sugar. And cinnamon.

  “Work.”

  I was hungry. I was tired. I was desperate.

  The master entered, picking at his teeth with a toothpick. We stopped our work and stood beside our looms. Hussain Khan rubbed his back, took out his tape measure and a piece of paper where he had written the length of our work before he left, and very calmly began his calculations. Then he took the slate and made his decisions: three marks gone, four marks gone, or no mark because the work hadn’t been done well.

  Nobody dared complain.

  The master continued his counting, while Karim followed at his heels like a dog hoping for a bone. After the decision, we all bowed our heads in submission.

  Salman, only one mark erased; Alì—“It’s a mess!”—not even one; and little Alì could hardly hold back his tears. Mohammed, three marks, and he whistled with relief. Hussain was at the back of the room. Now Maria …

  Hussain Khan stopped short in front of little Maria’s loom, and his eyes bulged. Karim didn’t understand the terrifying look he received, but he whined in terror.

  “And what is this?” roared Hussain Khan.

  “I … I don’t know … master … I …,” stammered Karim.

  We all went to have a look.

  Maria always had the easiest patterns, carpets with simple geometric figures that didn’t require any particular skill. She wasn’t strong, and didn’t even seem very smart, perhaps because of her deafness or whatever was wrong with her. Hussain Khan always said he kept her out of charity, but that wasn’t true. She did her share of work.

  We crowded in front of her loom. She had taken advantage of the fact that nobody ever paid much attention to her and that Karim behaved as though she didn’t exist, and she had changed the carpet she was working on. In the middle of the carpet, instead of simple red and yellow stripes, there was now a picture.

  It was of a kite.

  A big, white kite, with long plumes tied to the tail. They seemed to be fluttering in the wind, and there was a thin string that hung from the kite and bits of white that were clouds. It was beautiful.

  Maria was standing next to her work, looking even smaller, more delicate and defenseless than usual. Hussain Khan’s mouth was wide open. He started to speak, but couldn’t. He looked at Karim. He looked at all of us. He looked in the direction of the door for support from the mistress.

  Now he’s going to burst, he’s so angry, I thought.

  Hussain Khan uttered the only words he knew how to say, with a rattling voice.

  “Into the Tomb! Into the Tomb you go, too!”

  We gathered around him.

  Maria was too weak and delicate to survive even a single day in the Tomb, and Hussain knew this as well as we did.

  “Into the Tomb!” he repeated, but this time he didn’t seem so sure of himself.

  A voice screamed inside my head, Do something! For the love of heaven, somebody do something!

  Hussa
in put out his hand to grab Maria.

  From the corner of my eye, I saw Salman push his way to the front of the group.

  “If you send her,” he said, trying to keep his voice firm, “then send me, too.”

  “What? What?”

  “I said, punish me as well.”

  Despite his pitted skin and his rough hands, Salman was beautiful at that moment.

  “Well, what the hell,” said Mohammed, and he immediately began to stammer from the emotion, “well then … s-s-s-s … s-s-s-s …”

  “Go on!” they encouraged him from the back.

  “S-S-S-Send me, too,” he concluded.

  He looked around, satisfied as though he had made an important speech. He scratched his head and spat in the dirt like Karim.

  By then we all had our hands up and were yelling, “Send me! Send me, too!”

  Even little Alì shouted from behind my skirt.

  Hussain Khan was pale. He moved restlessly, unable to decide what to do. He tried to shout over our voices, but couldn’t. You could see that he loathed us and that he would have liked to see us dead. But even he knew that wasn’t possible.

  And after a bit he gave up. We couldn’t believe our eyes. Muttering various threats, Hussain Khan retreated. Karim slipped away with him.

  Iqbal was back with us an hour later, after six days in the Tomb. He was exhausted, pale, and starving, but he was still alive.

  Nine

  That evening there was a large group around Iqbal’s pallet.

  “I reached the city just before dawn,” Iqbal began his story. “The sky was gray. It was raining. There were great puddles everywhere, and I didn’t know where to go. For a while I just wandered around. There are areas where the houses are very tall, so tall you can hardly see the tops of them, and areas where old decrepit houses are bunched together, but there was nobody about. It was too early. I finally reached a very long, wide street that led out of the city, and I thought, Maybe this will lead me home, to the countryside, to my family. I was planning to try somehow to sneak a ride on a truck or bus, when I realized that Hussain Khan would come to my parents’ house and would force them to give me back to him. My mother would oppose it, but my father was a law-abiding man, and since he has this debt he wouldn’t be able to say no. So I looked for the market square. It’s enormous, did you know? You can’t imagine how big it is. There are hundreds of wooden tables all lined up, and piles of crates and mattings where vendors put out their wares. Despite the rain they were already working. Mountains of fruit, truckloads of vegetables from the country, baskets and baskets of different-colored spices, all covered with plastic. And the butcher stalls! Some butchers use sticky strips of paper to protect their meat from the flies, others just put it on the ground. They sell anything and everything there—old things, strange things, even crooked rusty nails.”

  “Come on!”

  “It’s true, I’m telling you. And then there are stalls that are like real shops and they have big radios and tapes you can put inside to hear music.”

  “I know,” said Karim with his usual superior air.

  “And other tapes that they say show pictures.”

  “I didn’t know that,” admitted Karim.

  “I walked around for hours. The market grew more and more crowded. I thought that if I stuck with the crowds it would be harder for Hussain Khan to find me. There were lots of things to see. I saw a juggler, and a snake charmer.”

  “There’s no such thing.”

  “Yes there is!”

  “And did the serpent sway to music?”

  “Not really. But it came out of the basket. It was a big snake with a broad head and an evil eye, and the man held it in his hands.”

  “Bare hands?”

  “That’s right. And there was food being sold everywhere. There were big pots of basmati rice and of chicken tandoori. It smelled so good. And I was hungry.”

  “And so? What did you do?”

  “I worked. They’re there, too.”

  “Who? Who’s there?”

  “Children. Working. They’re the ones who unload the trucks and carry the crates, some so heavy they feel like they’ll break your arms. You go to a merchant and say, ‘Got any work for me?’ And he says, ‘Move that load and I’ll give you a rupee.’ That’s what I did. But there were other children who didn’t want me to do anything. They said, ‘Who are you? Where do you come from? This is our turf. Any work here is ours. Get out of here.’ I was afraid they would attract attention to me. After all, Hussain was out there looking for me. So I told them to leave me alone and I tried another area. Finally I found a butcher who let me unload a truck full of mutton hinds. He gave me a burlap sack to put over my head and shoulders to keep the blood off, which was lucky, because Hussain would never recognize me covered with burlap, and I knew he was after me. Once I even thought I glimpsed him in the crowd.”

  “But what did you think you were going to do?”

  “I didn’t know. I thought I could hide a few days in the market and that I’d find something. I worked until the late afternoon, and I used the butcher’s rupee for food. It had stopped raining and the sun was beginning to shine. I sat against a wall to rest. Two bigger boys came up to me. They were smoking and they had a strange way of speaking. ‘Are you new?’ they asked.

  “‘Yes,’ I replied.

  “‘Where do you come from?’

  “The country,’ I lied.

  “‘Looking for work? If you’re quick, we have something you could do.’”

  “And what did they want you to do?”

  “I never understood. But they had a knife, which they showed me. ‘No thanks,’ I told them, but they kept insisting I join them. I asked them where I could sleep, and they started to laugh.

  “‘Here. Wherever you want. Every counter becomes a hotel room, but be careful, new boy!’

  “‘Why?’ I asked.

  “‘Just be careful!’ they repeated.

  “I was scared. I felt lonely, and I didn’t know what to do or where to go. I missed all of you, and I thought that maybe it had been dumb to run away. The market was emptying and night was coming. I felt so sad and homesick. I had escaped thinking that someone would help me and us, and there I was, all alone.”

  “So what did you do then?”

  “I saw a bus, the big colored kind with lots of lights and horns. Remember, Fatima, when I told you I wanted to ride one?”

  “I remember.”

  “So I got on and it took me around the city, until the conductor saw me and kicked me off. Then I took another, and another after that. I ended up in a place I didn’t know. It was almost night. I was hungry again and the excitement of the bus ride was long gone. I fell asleep in a doorway, curled tight in a ball so I wouldn’t feel the wind. In the morning the porter chased me away with a stick. I returned to the market, where I unloaded two truckloads of watermelons, always keeping an eye out for Hussain Khan. I thought I’d stay there for a few days, that the master would get tired of looking for me, so I’d be able to go home. But I wasn’t sure. I was afraid I’d end up living there like a stray dog. Then that afternoon the men arrived.”

  “What men?”

  “There was a group of them. There were even some women. They put up a kind of platform and behind it a big banner and lots of signs. Of course, I didn’t understand what was written on them. A large crowd formed immediately, and the police surrounded them. To help them, I thought. Then a man came onto the stage. I liked him the very minute I saw him. I thought, He must be a good man. He had a neat pointed beard and a clean white shirt. He began to speak into a microphone.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “He said … I remember well because I had never heard words like his before. He said, ‘We’re from the Bonded Labor Liberation Front of Pakistan.’”

  “And what’s that?”

  “I don’t know. But he said it was a crime, it was barbarous, to exploit children and make them work like sl
aves in carpet workshops or brick factories. He said that the masters are greedy and wicked.”

  “Did he really say that?”

  “I’m positive. And then he said that there’s a law now in Pakistan: People who exploit children have to go to prison.”

  “Yay! That’s great! That’s right! It’s only fair!”

  “Yes, but the majority of the people there didn’t agree. The merchants insulted him and threw rotten vegetables at him. They yelled, ‘Get out of here! Fool! Traitor!’ The man with the white shirt managed to shout even louder. The crowd didn’t intimidate him, and you should have seen how unruly the crowd was. The carpet sellers were the most ferocious. It looked like they wanted to attack the platform. They yelled that the man in the white shirt spoke only lies, all lies, but I thought, Here’s someone who can help me and my friends. I tried to get closer to the platform to speak to him, but there were just too many people, and the platform was surrounded by policemen. So I thought, I’ll talk to a policeman. They’re here to help. That man says there’s a law to protect children from masters. I said to the policeman nearest to me. That man’s right about how masters exploit children workers. My friends and I are slaves of a carpet merchant.’

  “’What are you doing here?’ he asked.

  “‘I ran away.’

  “‘And what’s your master’s name?’

  “‘Hussain Khan, sir.’

  “He looked around before saying, ‘Come with me.’

  “‘Where?’

  “‘Don’t be afraid. To the police station. We’ll give you something to eat. And tomorrow morning we’ll go see this Hussain.’

  “‘Will you put him in jail?’

  “‘We’ll know what to do.’

  “At the police station they were very nice to me. They gave me a bowl of rice and they let me sleep on a cot in a cell. But I wasn’t a prisoner. I could go away if I liked. At least, that’s what they told me.

  “You know what happened the next day. Hussain told them that we’re workers, that he pays us regularly, that there aren’t any chains. And they believed him.”