Sara Alexi - The Illegal Gardener

Aaman forces his hands deeper into his pockets, pinning his arms to his sides for warmth. He tucks his chin to his chest and wonders if he will eat today. His toes curl for some relief from his pinching trainers. He closes his eyes and allows himself to drift for a moment, the bright moon not dispelling his need for sleep.

The grumble of a tractor jerks him awake. He looks up. The tractor hauls a flat back of crates, ready for the casual labourers to fill them. The tractor passes and Aaman’s head sinks to his chest again.

The flick of a light in the pharmacy shop lays a rug of orange across the road. There are muffled noises within, buried in the depths of tinctures and bandages. Aaman rocks onto his heels and back, snorting warm air down his jumper, the heat giving him a momentary sense of civilisation.

The baker and his wife, next to the pharmacy, begin their work before Aaman arrives in the morning. The strong smell of bread gives him a time check. The oven door opens at the same hour each morning so the day’s staple can be presented to the trickle of locals for breakfast. It will be an hour or so before the first of them appears.

A cockerel crows, its raucous call irritating a dog into barking. Their cries echo around the village above the noise of the wind machines that have been switched on to keep the oranges from freezing on the trees. When it hits below zero, it sounds like helicopters surround the village.

There is one such machine mounted on a pylon next to the building where Aaman sleeps. Aaman wishes the season would hasten, so cold at night, only warm by day at this time of year. Last night had been three below zero. Cold and noisy.

The kiosk’s fluorescents stammer their way to life beside him. The awning blocks his view. The protective metal shutters clang as they are taken down from the front of the drinks fridges, and glasses chink as crates of empty bottles are stowed away. The kiosk lady never speaks to him. Day after day they share this space, the village square, with its dried-up fountain and a lone palm tree surrounded by a circular bench. Aaman presumes she has seen illegal immigrants like him come and go for years. He is faceless to her.

A bitter aroma drifts from the kiosk. Her daily flask of coffee readies her for her shift. Aaman, unwillingly, recalls morning cups of tea with his father and mother after morning prayers, full of buffalo milk, heavy and rich and warm. Chasing the cold away in winter.

The rumble of another tractor. He looks up as it shudders to a halt. Aaman pulls himself as tall as he can. There is a chance; he is the only one here so far today. But the farmer has not stopped for workers. He greets the kiosk lady by name, chats for a while and leaves with cigarettes in one hand, the other hand helping to bring the conversation to its amusing end. He chuckles as he climbs back onto the tractor’s metal seat. He pulls his coat under his bottom to fight the cold.

The smell of bread percolates through the neck of Aaman’s jumper, where he has buried his nose. Aaman didn’t eat the day before. No work, no food. A deathly cycle. No work, no food, no energy, no work, no food until, until what? Aaman shuffles from foot to foot to warm himself and to keep his mind distracted from his stomach. He glimpses a movement behind him.

“Hi.” It is Mahmout.

“Hello.” Aaman doesn’t sound friendly. It is his intention. He is not here to make friends even if Mahmout is the only other Pakistani looking for work in this village. Aaman is from the North, the Punjab, a small village close to Sialkot. Mahmout is from the south, a world apart. Friends are irrelevant to his quest. Mahmout is grinning, as always.

Mahmout slumps, yawning, onto the circular bench. The temperature climbs above zero. The wind fans stop. The waking movements of the village can be heard in the ensuing silence. A woman chastises. A door slams. Dogs dotted across the village bark randomly. Another cockerel crows. Soon the sun will be high enough to heat the day, making work a sweaty, mouth-drying job.

Two tall men walk up and stand next to them. Aaman judges their height and manner and decides they are Russian illegals. Their dialogue confirms this. They do not acknowledge Aaman or Mahmout. The Russians will get work first. They are tall and look strong; they stand with authority. Their clothes look shop-bought, not passed on as his and Mahmout’s do. They look like they have had a good night’s sleep.

Mahmout will also get work before him. Aaman is short. He looks like a child. He was so thrilled, at the age of five, when he was given the job of fetching the jugs of water home. The jugs were heavy and for a long time it was a struggle. He saw it as following his brother, the beginning of manhood. He got up early and relished the chance day after day to prove his worth. It took nearly two years before the jugs were no longer a struggle. He was proud the day he noticed that. His mother was proud of him too, and his father ruffled his hair.

Aaman’s father has two bullocks for ploughing, which he keeps at the back of the house in the village near Sialkot. Like his brother Giaan before him, Aaman would bring them grass and water. It was a peaceful household. The only time anyone raised a voice in his family was once when Giaan argued with their father. He said honour and status came from hard work, not from turbans. His father, who had worn a turban all his life, believed turbans said much more than that. They denoted his position in life, his point of view, his outlook. Soon after that, Giaan went to work at the factory, leaving Aaman and his father to till the soil. Aaman felt very alone.

Aaman worked alongside his father and his grandfather in the fields until, at the age of eight, he tried for a job in the factory where Giaan worked. He thought he was a man. The factory made footballs. Aaman worked for a week with no pay to show his ability. He spent time in the storage room where roll after roll of cotton was stored. He also worked in the laminating room where the layers of cotton were coated with liquid vinyl, another layer of cotton smoothed on top, layer after layer to the thickness of leather.

At first, his brother worked in the noisy cutting rooms where the booming rhythm of the stamping machines stipulated the speed his die cut the hexagons. Aaman was impressed by the rate at which the men in this room worked, the floor thick with hexagons. Giaan had later progressed to the printing rooms. These rooms were much less noisy than the cutting rooms with their echoing presses. They were still. Each man to his colour. Giaan screen printed the colour red. Each hexagon printed individually.

That fateful factory.

The village cafe opens its doors, and two waiting men enter and sit on the hard wooden chairs, one on each side of the open dimly lit room. His own seat, his usual metal table. One lights a cigarette. The owner takes them unordered coffee, the routine of years. No one speaks.

A van pulls up. All the men stand stiffly on the edge of the pavement. Aaman takes his hands out of his pockets, tries to grow, letting his pride fill his chest. Mahmout fixes a grin on his face. The two Russians look assured, hands in pockets, no smiles. Serious.

The van driver doesn’t hesitate. He points to the Russians and waves with his thumb for them to get in the back of the van. The Russians smile now. They will eat today.

He didn’t get the job at the factory where his brother worked. Not long after, he stopped growing. His body stunted at ten years old, never to catch up with his pride or his conscientiousness, both large to compensate his diminutive stature. Eventually he managed to get a job at a carpet factory. No questions were asked of his age or ability. The hours were very long, and it was hard on his father and grandfather who were left to till unaided by youth.