Uzma Khan - Trespassing

The man by the switch said, ‘Try it now.’

Muhammad Shah pressed a button. Everyone cheered. ‘All right, strap it on.’

There was resistance now. Hands with broken thumbs fought men that slipped the ring around the head. The head that Salaamat now saw closely. The narrow dome with scars and bald patches, finally opening its eyes. Red eyes, with an expression he’d never known in a human face. Like burning metal. Yes, if his bus had had eyes, it would have looked out at the world like that. It would have looked left at the torch lighting the pictures of the glittery golden fish. ‘Don’t touch!’ it would scream. ‘That’s mine!’ It would look right at the forest of lofty trees, where the preening parrots were set ablaze. It would look out of a ring-of-fire and keep looking till the eyes had burned. But before that, it would look at him.

Salaamat flinched. A moan moved up from his guts and pealed through the darkness. It was not a moan, it was vomit, and it was stuck in his nose. A drunk man was punching his stomach while another struck his head. He dropped to his knees. Three feet away, a turtle was done laying her eggs. He was being dragged to the sea. He was vomiting oyster-white albumen, blood, and something green.

In the room flickering with torchlight, the stun belt was now firmly around the captive who’d shut his eyes again. Salaamat saw the laughter; he didn’t hear it. It was as if the room had sunk underwater. When men moved, they moved slowly. When they talked, he heard waves. Muhammad Shah pressed a switch on a square slab of black plastic. A current shot through the captive’s sides and his head and torso jerked. The hands flew. The legs in iron danced. If the shackles jingled he didn’t hear them. He was swimming away. He tasted salt and then he felt a shell. The captive was in his arms.

Ride, ride, Salaamat said to him.

Ri-bit came the reply.

The room stank and the men held their noses. They passed the switch around like a tube of oxygen. Soon it was his turn to take a hit. He held it but did nothing. The man still convulsed.

Why do you twitch when I have not yet shocked you? he asked.

Ri-bit.

Well then, if I do shock you what is the difference?

The man was still thrusting.

Should I try?

Ri-bit.

He moved the switch just barely, pretending to strike it.

The man jerked even more furiously, writhing in his own shit.

Pretend. Jerk. Pretend. Jerk.

The men were laughing soundlessly. Clapping too. Splashing him from head to toe. Smacking his back. Only the thumps never landed, because you could never thump someone underwater. Pretend. Jerk.

He passed the button to the next man, who silently congratulated him on fulfilling his purpose. Nobody knew he hadn’t done a thing. Not even the captive.

‘You know I run faster than you,’ called Fatah. ‘Stop trying to outdo me.’ He caught up with Salaamat, who turned and ducked into a cramped bed of pine needles. ‘I thought the Chief gave you fair marks but you’re failing the after-test.’ He plunked down, squeezing beside him.

Salaamat sucked on a cigarette and passed it to Fatah who smoked, like the Chief, by pulling on his fist. A kingfisher perched in the fissure of a rock, then dived out of sight, into the river. He surfaced again, his wings a span of jet black and brilliant white. The tuft around his forehead fanned out in the wind, like a lily.

It was good Fatah came after him but he wished to be alone.

‘You didn’t even look at me at practice this morning,’ Fatah complained. ‘And why didn’t you wait before coming up here?’

He said nothing.

‘Oh my Rani.’ Fatah tickled him. ‘What blue, blue eyes you have!’

Salaamat slid free, pressing deeper into the rocks cupping them.

‘You’re very boring today,’ he frowned. ‘Acha listen, answer my riddle. What’s the best sex the Commander ever had?’

Salaamat lit another cigarette and exhaled in a slow tunnel.

‘When he brushed his wife’s teeth with keekar!’ He plucked a pine needle from the floor and rolled over Salaamat, prying his mouth open, forcing the stick inside.

Salaamat threw him off. ‘Stop it!’

Fatah’s temper rose. ‘You’re a bitch, you know that? A good-for-nothing cowardly bitch.’

‘Why do you make fun of the Commander when you’re just the same?’ Salaamat snapped suddenly.

‘Me? I would do a much better job.’

‘So that’s it. You want to be the one who gets to stand in the shade, shining the Winchester?’

Fatah reached for his kurta collar but before he could strike, Salaamat leaped over the rock. In the chase, Salaamat found he’d finally become the swifter one. He raced up massive boulders without needing any footholds, running through thorns fearlessly. He felt exhilarated.

‘See?’ Fatah yelled from below. ‘You’re running away. Just like a coward. Come down and fight!’

Salaamat panted. There were no trees at this height. The sun blazed down and he felt a sting under his right ear. Touching it, he saw blood. But he was on top of the world. They’d never been this far up before. He called down, ‘If you were commander, what would you say to your men every morning?’

There was no answer. The barbed mesquite blocked his view. Maybe Fatah was drawing closer. He pushed on.

Then he heard: ‘I’d tell them if it weren’t for the Chief they’d be nothing. That we can be anything we want, and get anything we want, all because of him. And I’m telling you you’ve got a second test coming up so don’t be stupid.’

Salaamat paused again, barely even able to remember his meeting with the Chief afterwards. He’d felt none of Fatah’s wonder in the presence of the nondescript man seated on a takht, leaning on satin pillows. Half a dozen men surrounded him with fans and refreshments. All carried machine guns. A young boy, perhaps twelve, hunkered at the Chief’s feet, pressing his calves. Another stood behind the takht massaging his shoulders. There was a trial underway. A quarrel in a village. He hadn’t listened to the details, but there was a woman sobbing, and an elderly man pleading for protection and justice. He presented a gift, which Salaamat remembered well: a rocket-launching missile wreathed in a garland of pink flowers.

‘So this is your group’s best shot?’ The Chief pointed at Salaamat when he was introduced.

‘It is indeed,’ Fatah bowed. ‘Kneel!’ he hissed at Salaamat.

He knelt.

While details of the torture were graphically presented, the Chief examined Salaamat. There were sounds from another room. Plates banging. Women talking. The boy at the Chief’s feet lit an imported cigarette and passed it to him. He cupped his fist, inhaling loudly.

Salaamat remembered little after that. Just that his eyes went from the sad, tattered old man to the gift to the Chief and the sickness he’d felt in the cell transformed to hate, especially when the Chief concluded, ‘Well done,’ and swiftly dismissed them.

And when blindfolded again in the jeep, he’d been grateful for the chance to shut his eyes. That’s all he wanted to do: shut his eyes. Sleep for days.

Now he looked about him. The river appeared motionless from here, a sheet of blue tranquility, with yellow glitter bubbling down. The air smelled wholesome. They’d eat carp for dinner. This was all good.

He called out to Fatah, ‘And what if I don’t want to take it?’

The answer was swift and came from nearer. ‘Who says you have a choice?’

‘I thought we could get anything we wanted?’

‘Depends on who’s giving it.’

Still higher. There were green dots on the shore and black specks rolling in and out of them like peppercorns. He felt he could scoop them all into a jar and toss the lot into the Indus.