Uzma Khan: Trespassing

‘I’m starving,’ he drooled.

‘How long are you going to reject dorm food?’

‘As long as the sight of it makes me puke.’

‘Then you have to come up with something else, Day-nish you poor thing, or you’ll get sick.’ She kissed his nose and lit the candles. ‘Happy Birthday!’

‘Thanks, Penny.’ He blew the candles out and waited impatiently for a slice of cake. He wolfed in silence, suddenly depressed. She was the only one in this college of three thousand who knew he turned twenty today. She ruffled his hair while he ate. She was giving, kind, and yet he could think of nothing at all to say to her. He sat on Penny’s bed, under Penny’s galaxy, in Penny’s candlelight. If she snuffed it all out, where would he go?

MAY 1992

Daanish sat down with a thump. He’d made it back to his seat just as the Fasten Your Seat Belt sign lit up. The water acquired from a pleasant stewardess for himself and Khurram spilled over them both. But as usual, his companion was delighted. His eyes danced, ‘Now we are having fun.’ Though water had fallen on her too, in the aisle seat Khurram’s mother stayed rolled up in a deep sleep.

Khurram said, ‘You don’t talk very much. You are like my mother, but not my father. I got his tongue. And when he jabbered on, she did just that.’ He pointed to the blanketed bundle. Only a shriveled nose and closed eyelids poked out. He slapped his chubby, Levi’d thighs and laughed heartily. ‘Now I am insisting you tell me what is going on in your brilliant mind. I know you are like my brother in Amreeka. Always thinking. Never enjoying life. One day you will be so successful, and by the grace of Allah, support your jolly younger brother!’

Daanish laughed. ‘I have no brothers.’

‘Ah! That is first thing you are telling me.’ He looked at his watch. ‘It is taking fourteen hours.’

‘I’m glad I’m not the only one keeping meticulous track of the time.’

Khurram rubbed his hands. ‘No brothers? Your poor parents. Sisters?’

‘No. Only cousins. And too many.’

He swiveled around to better face Daanish, and his stomach torqued under the seatbelt. ‘How can you say that? There can never be too many.’

Daanish didn’t have the heart to tell him that as of three days ago, he didn’t even have a father.

The ride was markedly smoother now, and the seatbelt sign switched off. Khurram returned to Nintendo. After a while he said, ‘We’ll be in Lahore soon. Then Karachi, at last. Who is to picking you up?’

My father, thought Daanish, his absence hitting him.

They touched Karachi four hours later.

‘We’re here!’ Khurram unfastened his seatbelt. There was a bustle of activity: bangles ringing, babies screaming, the overhead storage compartments snapping open and banging shut, briefcases and shopping bags bludgeoning bottoms. Passengers were preparing to dismount before the plane had even halted. The withered voice of a stewardess asked them not to, but then she and the crackling radio together gave up.

Finally the door opened and Daanish followed the others down to the runway. The sky was a light gray haze and the leaden heat immediately stifling. Not a star shone through. He adjusted his watch to local time: 3.30 a.m.

‘The car is waiting,’ said Khurram, when they’d made it through the tangle of immigration, baggage and customs.

‘Which car? I haven’t seen my family yet.’

‘Oh ho, don’t you remember? You are the forgetful type! How did you manage alone in Amreeka for three years?’

‘Khurram, it’s been great, but I should stay where my chacha can see me.’

‘You really don’t remember calling from my mobile when we landed in Lahore? Are you sick?’ They were wheeling two carts each, though only one suitcase was Daanish’s.

Daanish frowned, ‘Remember what?’

‘Arre paagal,’ Khurram’s cart tipped. He wrestled with a suitcase bursting at the seams. The lights were too dim to know if anything was lost, so he pawed around the gravel. ‘I told you your house is so close to mine, and since we have a driver, what is the point of disturbing your poor chacha? The flight is delaying already. We called him, and even talking to your mother. Everyone finally agreed. Nobody likes driving alone in the middle of the night these days. Kooch to yaad ho ga?’ Khurram’s old mother zipped ahead with purpose. All those leg curls on the plane seemed to have rejuvenated her thoroughly.

Daanish was speechless. He had absolutely no recollection of the phone call. He wanted to know if he’d spoken to Anu or if Khurram had, and how she’d sounded. But he couldn’t shock Khurram any further. He followed him, feeling suddenly that he was the bumbling child and Khurram the adult.

The parking lot was strewn with men idly wandering about and yawning. The drawstrings of their shalwars dangled like goat-tails. They smoked, hawked, and watched families re-unite. Two little children ran up to Khurram and boldly squeezed his midriff. ‘Khurram Bhai! Khurram Bhai!’ they squealed. The girl had stick-like legs that skipped under a golden dress, while arms bedecked in bangles and fingers finely tipped in magenta nail polish waved excitedly. The boy climbed into Khurram’s arms and was attaching a balloon to one fat ear, when all at once there appeared half a dozen others. Each began vying for Khurram while his mother, with whom he’d barely conversed during the entire flight, zealously orchestrated the grabbing and pinching.

Daanish stood apart, eyeing the baggage, wondering how they’d all fit into one car — or were there several? His attention was suddenly caught by another man obviously affiliated with the party, but like himself, not quite a part of it. He was a striking presence: dark, with cheekbones women would extract teeth for; coal-black, oiled ringlets that brushed a prominent chin; eyes an odd, bluish opal; soldierly stature; shoulders straight and solid, with curves decipherable enough through a thin kameez in the dim light. He seemed aware of cutting an impressive figure and turned his head, allowing Daanish a view of his haughty, chiseled profile. Daanish raised an amused brow.

The cluster began to move. Daanish followed. Khurram introduced him to the others. The men and children hugged and kissed him too, the boy offering to tie his ear to another one of his balloons. The handsome man pulled Khurram’s cart. Daanish decided he was the driver.

‘We are dropping him first,’ Khurram pointed to Daanish. ‘He lives on our street.’

‘Is that so?’ an uncle smiled while the others nodded amiably.

‘Yes,’ Daanish replied. ‘Thanks for squeezing me in.’

Khurram was now the star of the show and Daanish swore he’d even begun to look different. Gone was the chubby boy with toys. He walked erect, thrusting his belly forward like a beacon. He described with great authority his knightly escapades at supermarkets where he could, blindfolded, name every variety of cheese-spread and crackers just by taste. He spoke of bank machines that spit money by touching buttons impossibly convoluted. And all the while, he punctuated his stories with orders to the driver — ‘Be careful with that suitcase, it has tins.’

There was only one car, a metallic-green Honda Civic. ‘Where’s mine?’ Khurram demanded of the driver.

‘Your brother-in-law took the Land Cruiser today,’ explained an uncle.

While Khurram cursed the missing relative, the driver began loading the trunk. Khurram sat in front with a child on each knee and two duffel bags at his feet. The others piled at the back with the remaining luggage. When the handbrake was down, an aunt put a bag on top of it.