Uzma Khan - Trespassing

The sand beneath his toes, the scent of the river, the way his hair blew out of the twine of grass binding it, the sky free of dust and haze, the feathery sisky leaves — all refreshed him. Though a strong fighter and accurate shot, he fulfilled his duties with a minimum of interest and his spirit wandered. Instead of distancing himself from the land, he was entering it. And he grew unconvinced that the answer to all his troubles was a separate state. If anything, this land the others wanted to split was showing him how to glue back his splintered pieces.

But Fatah was awesome and he was scratching a map of Pakistan on the powdery outcrop. He knew the country’s contours from memory. He could draw several countries freehand. He said the map of the world was in his hands. Now he rubbed and fine-tuned the lines, and said, ‘Pakistan is easy — an arm extending from China into the Arabian Sea, with the thumb and little finger sticking out sideways like that.’ He crouched on his haunches and pulled the hem of Salaamat’s ratty trousers, forcing him down too. ‘Sindh is the thumb. Notice none of the countries that affect us most have any shape to speak of. Afghanistan is a shapeless glob. What is Russia? Amreeka? Big like Anjuman but with none of her curves. A bump here, a finger there. Granted, India has some shape. But look at Sulawesi! She has arms, legs, even a braid!’

Fatah also kept meticulous track of what each country exported to theirs, as Salaamat had witnessed in Hero’s shop. He said those claiming that Sindh couldn’t stand on its own were wrong — they had only to learn to make the equipment and then sell it to others even worse off. ‘Maybe the people of Sulawesi!’

Salaamat nodded yet his spirit walked away. There was no way to get any closer to the eagle’s nest from here. They should turn around and start again. But the spot was well shaded, and a pleasing wind wafted in from the river sweeping placidly below.

Fatah went on, ‘So, about this thumb. We are what we are because we’ve lived on it for thousands of years. Once it had pride. Now it has a cuff around it. It’s been bent and beaten and the blood’s been shut off. It dangles impotently. To stand erect, it has to break free.’

Salaamat knew by blood, Fatah meant the Indus. He’d spoken many times of the dams in the Punjab that were choking off the supply. That province teemed with life from five opulent rivers but it had to have more. ‘More is what the Punjab is all about,’ he’d say. ‘More food, more water, more wealth, more hideously fat men like that Handsome you speak of.’ In much of Sindh, the Indus had dwindled to a trickle.

Salaamat’s village too had teemed with talk of this. There were fishermen who depended on fish that in turn depended on the mangroves that once flourished in the estuaries. With the fresh water cut off, the trees were withering, and the fish dying. Many of these villagers too had had to leave, and, like Salaamat, bow to those who displaced them. He’d tell Fatah of his nights of rage at Handsome’s, and how ridiculous it was that Handsome’s workers complained of those that displaced them. Fatah would seethe: They’re all bastards. All of them. That’s why we’re here.

The first thing the Bullets did when they captured someone was cuff his thumbs and the last, dispose of the body in the river.

Salaamat took a deep breath of the stream of pure air floating around him. The day he’d watched his bus burn, he’d thought he could never find beauty again. He wished he’d been right. He wished God hadn’t lodged that something in him which stubbornly refused to shut down. He wished he didn’t feel God when he heard the eagle’s chicks greet her. He could will himself into a steel nugget, yes, better, in fact, than anyone here. But it was a superficial nugget, as easily rejected as summoned. Beneath the skin, he was as vulnerable as he ever had been.

Fatah began descending the cliff. ‘We’re not getting anywhere with those birds.’ Salaamat followed.

They were dropping fast, to a familiar expanse of wild flowers. In amongst the rug of mulch, well hidden by the brittle grass, was a tin can. The other men also hid their supplies here. Fatah’s was a can of liquor, bought from the Mohanas who lived further up the river. Salaamat took a swig and passed it back to Fatah. It was made from oranges and tasted like jackal piss, but he liked it anyway.

When the can was half consumed Fatah returned to mimicking the Commander. ‘You can see those sons-of-owl fish eggs from the tallest cliffs on the banks. Hey, there we are, slimy yellow fish eggs! You can see us from up here.’

‘No you can’t,’ Salaamat punched him lightly. ‘Give me the can.’ After two hefty gulps he said, ‘My God you’re right!’ They laughed so hard their sides ached, and when they shrieked the valley answered back. This made them laugh even harder.

Suddenly Fatah asked, ‘What’s the best sex you ever had?’

Again, peals of laughter.

Salaamat faced his friend. ‘You know, you’re a total rectangle.’

‘Get lost. You came out of your mother feet first.’

‘Your head is rectangular, your hands are rectangular, even your smile is rectangular.’ He squinted. Yes, Fatah was shaped like a tree-trunk, with a mop of stiff hair for leaves. He took another mouthful of the tangerine torture. ‘Your teeth too. Rectangular.’

‘Give me that,’ Fatah snatched the can. ‘It’s frying your brain.’

‘In a rectangle.’

They exploded again.

Fatah smacked Salaamat’s cheek and wheezed. ‘So, who was your best fuck?’

The sun was dipping behind the cliffs on the opposite shore. It must have been about four o’clock. The men would be coming back from the highway, and from the Chief’s. He remembered the women Chikna would sometimes take him to. Oily-skinned, with mascara-clogged eyes. In tight kameezes they’d little to flaunt besides rolls of stomach fat. Never like Rani. But he’d undressed each while thinking of her, so his knees didn’t bruise from thrusting into a whore on a plank of wood covered by a filthy cloth stained with blood and semen. He didn’t taste grime or smell the sweet cakey odor of her make-up as it blended with her sweat. Air didn’t pass through her broken teeth as she snarled, ‘Enough!’ No, he had her positioned in front of a waterfall, just like the one in Dia’s house. Standing, and with the sunlight falling directly on the outer bend of her slightly fuller, left breast.

He whispered, ‘The best was in a cascade.’

‘Ah!’ Fatah admired. ‘Now that’s something I never did.’

‘I wanted her stripped to the waist only. Then I took her shoulders and turned her first to the left, then the right. That way the fountain hit each breast exactly at the point where it swelled like a cup, just around the nipple. That’s the best part of a woman’s body.’

‘Her neck was long and white,’ Fatah nodded dreamily.

‘Her eyes so innocent, so afraid.’

‘But what about below?’ Fatah frowned.

‘That too,’ Salaamat smiled mysteriously. ‘After an hour or so. She was wearing a green silk petticoat. It was soaked through.’

‘Yes. I can see it. Her long hair is drenched. One thick strand clings to a breast. Water drips around and around her smooth cool nipple. You smell her flowery shampoo as you taste the teat.’

‘That’s when I unhook the petticoat.’

‘It’s too wet to fall down itself. You help. Your fingers slide over the silk around her bottom.’

‘The biggest, roundest, most generous bottom God ever made.’

‘You cannot wait. You push the slip up instead of down.’

‘Her thighs are cold but inside, she is a soft, warm blanket.’

On the grass they lay perfectly still, their shoulders touching. Salaamat only now realized they were touching. Fatah barely breathed. Slowly, Salaamat turned his head and looked at him. A total rectangle. Eyes still shut. Thick dark lips parted slightly and twitching. Jaw heavy, forehead furrowed. Pictures still fluttering beneath those squeezed eyelids. Muscles contorting as he struggled to maintain his concentration. A mud-colored shalwar in whose side pocket bulged a pistol — a Ruger. Men could upgrade from Soviet to American firearms after they’d killed someone. Yes. In the center of Fatah’s body was another bulge. Like his lips, also twitching.