K Pasha « Ramblers’ Guild

How long a post can we stand, eh? I’m supposedly writing a novel. Since, oh, 2004 at least, perhaps earlier. And this is one part of that. One small part, of about two and a half thousand words. I’m posting it all here because we haven’t sorted out exactly how we will do this.

Every time I reread this bit, it makes me cringe, though usually at different bits every time. And before I write more disclaimers, I’m just going to bloody well post it.

from The Leaving Contract (working title)

Gongloo jumps off the curb and doesn’t look back, and doesn’t think of anything at all as she watches the trees blur by. She idly notices that the traffic has picked up since she started out. The driver of the bus she crosses rubs his eyes and begins to look alert. She runs the red light that turns into her street, dodging a few government school students. Her father is standing at the gate with a cigar in his mouth and his hands on his hips. Gongloo slows down and turns in.
“Where have you been?” he asks belligerently.
“Decided to go for a bike ride.”
“On that thing? It’s broken.”
“Just a little rusty.”
“Should have oiled it at least. I’ve taught you that much.”
“I know, but I didn’t want to be late,” she says before she can think to censor herself.
“Late? Late for what? Did you meet Fantsy there or something? He doesn’t wake up in the morning, I thought.”
“No, I mean later than I’m used to being.”
He eyes her suspiciously. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“I don’t like to go for my morning traipse too late. It gets crowded and people get curious. I didn’t want to wait till this time. The bus drivers are waking up already.”
He grunts. “Eat now.”
“Anything special?”
“Special, you want special? For running around early in the morning on broken bicycles?”
“Just wondering, Abu.”
“Don’t Abu me. Nothing special. Eggs. Desi ones. They’re nice. From your uncle. The git who left us that piece of trash. Go eat.”
“Is he here too?”
“He’s coming. That’s why he sent the eggs, the bugger. So he can come eat them. Go make a cake of them or something. So the bastard misses them altogether.”
“Anything else happening, Abu?”
“Eat I said.”
She dumps the bike next to the front steps and walks into the house. That was brilliant, Gongloo, don’t want to be late for you date with Sohrab guy, tell your father that, that’s a good idea. She shakes herself free of the thought and runs to her room. Turns on the shower and steps inside, realizing as the hot water hits her T-shirt that the hot water is hitting her T-shirt and not her skin. “Fuck,” she mutters under her breath, but doesn’t move. She unties her hair, closes her eyes and stands there in her clothes, feels the water seep through the shirt and the bra, get in under the sweat pants, making splacky noises on the parachute material. Haven’t raced anyone since Fantsy. And that was when I was bigger than him. Long time since I was bigger than Fantsy. Well, anyway. Clothes. I’m wearing clothes.
She strips her wet, heavy clothes off and throw them on the floor, out of the direct stream of water, and pours some shampoo on them. That fixes that, she thinks. Instant laundry. She finishes showering and gets out, stands in front of the mirror. Five minutes go by. She can hear music outside, someone playing Indian songs from a bad sound system. There are dogs barking at each other. And the Walls ice cream truck has just swung into earshot. There’s no noise, she thinks. What’s wrong with me? Someone rings a bicycle bell. She turns and goes to her hanging canvas, takes a black pen and draws a bicycle in lines. She draws another one right next to it. She draws five in a row, all facing the same direction. What’s wrong with this picture? The wheels are wrong, how can the wheels be wrong, they’re just round with spokes in them. Well, at least there’s noise now. What’s wrong with the wheels? Oh. Right. She draws in mud-guards over the top of each wheels. It’s barely more than an arc above another arc, but it makes all the difference. The wheels are huge on Sohrabs, she thinks, they must splash up all kinds of crap. She draws more, all in a line, wheel to wheel, all facing the same direction, until she finds she’s run into the picture of the playground. The bottom of the slide now has a bicycle wheel on it. There’s a bicycle on the slide. In the playground. She keeps drawing, going all the way to the other side of the canvas.
When she comes to the dining room an hour later, her father spots her from the drawing room and yells, “How long does a shower take?”
“I’m a girl, Abu,” she replies distractedly as she tests the various fruits on the table for ripeness. After a moment or two, she becomes aware that her father is staring at her and she blinks a few times, and smiles.
“Don’t give me that,” he says.
“Don’t give you what?”
“You walked down here with a glazed look in your eyes. Like you’ve been smoking up.”
“I haven’t.”
“I know that, you silly twit.”
“I was drawing.”
He looks at her as she sits down across from him and bites into a peach.
“Still. Why are you looking drugged?”
“Maybe the bike ride wore me out.”
“No.”
“Abu.”
“Don’t Abu me.”
She sighs and chews. After staring at nothing for a while, she says, “I met a boy in the park yesterday.”
“That’s nice.”
“It is?”
“Was he nice?”
She shrugs. “Yeah, pretty much. Sort of annoying.”
“So, good.”
“Fantsy thinks I should run away.”
“Fantsy’s mother is a mean-spirited hag.”
Gongloo snorts. “Well, Daman is getting married,” she says, as if that explains everything.
“And?”
“I think I should spend more time in playgrounds.”
Her father takes off his glasses. Gongloo focuses on him for the first time. Abu looks old, she thinks to herself. His face, it’s like someone made him carry their luggage on his head. It’s all scrunched and wrinkly. She stares at him as he’s cleaning his glasses and his face disassembles in her imagination, turns into shapes and lines, folds of brown and browner. When he puts them on again, she has to blink several times to find his face again.
“Your mum always took you to playgrounds, I remember. You and Fantsy.”
“Yeah.”
“Do you remember?”
“In parts.”
“When we were young, when we’d first met, your mother and I used to go to playgrounds together.”
“Yeah. Mum told me.”
“We used to have fights there. A lot of fights.”
“I don’t remember you fighting.”
He smiles. “Not once you came, then we hardly fought at all.” He frowns. “Except about gripe water. That woman had the most unreasonable fear of gripe water.”
Gongloo cackles suddenly. “Gripe water? Really? That’s excellent.”
“She thought it was too desi.”
“But Nani swears by the stuff.”
“That might have something to do with it. She and your Nani used to fight about it too. Their fights were much bigger than ours. Anyway, I used to feed it to you on the sly. Told her it was my soothing voice that quieted you.”
“Abu.”
“What ‘Abu’?”
“Your voice isn’t really soothing.”
“My girl, you may be 23, but I can still crack you one.”
“Sorry, Abu. Anyway, you were talking about Nani.”
He looks up suddenly, straight into her eyes, and she has to look away. “I was talking about your mother.”
“Right.” She goes to fiddle with the curtains.
“And gripe water, for some reason,” says her father, kindly. “Why was I talking about gripe water, Gul?”
“I’m not sure. Fights.” Why do I have to be honest, she thinks idly. “You were talking about fights with Amma. In playgrounds.”
“Hm. Why was I saying that, I wonder.”
“I don’t know. Abu, Sonu Chacha’s going to be here soon. Should we be getting food ready?”
“He’ll have breakfast when he comes. That’s why he sent the eggs, I’m sure of it.”
She grins. “You weren’t kidding?”
“Sonu send eggs from the farm and not waddle up behind them? Gongloo.”
“Yes, I suppose.”
“Occasionally we fought about Sonu.”
“Really?” She sits down and pays attention for the first time.
“She said I was too mean to him.”
“Nonsense.”
“That’s what I said. I love the bastard, I said. She said I was harsh in my criticism.”
“Was that because of Nani, do you think?” she asks quietly.
He sighs a small sigh. “I think partly. She thought the reason Sonu never became a star was that his family was so verbally abusive.”
“But Sonu Chacha’s where you learned all your swear words.”
“Yes. Bastard. He’s four years younger, you know. Imagine my shame.”
“Abu.”
“All through school, I was so jealous.”
“Sonu Chacha doesn’t seem cowed to me. Not like Amma.”
“Amma wasn’t cowed, Gul.”
“I don’t buy it. Between Nani and Apiya – anyway. I think – I think if Apiya hadn’t been so derisive every time they came over, things would be different.”
He sighs again. “And the Catholicism?”
She rolls her eyes. “Well, everyone loves a Mother Theresa.”
“Gul. It’s serious for her. She means it.”
“How can she mean it? How? What could possibly make sense to her about it all?”
“Look, your mother’s penchant for abiding by historical continuity –“
“Bugger Amma’s penchants, Abu! Since when is life a story? Since when did you and I become a dot on a timeline?”
“I’d hope you and I each got our own dot.” He smiles up at her, but she doesn’t smile back. “And your penchant for drama. Look, I know you’ve gone and stood up with flare and hollered for effect, and I understand. And that breathing heavily and glaring thing is good too. But what I’m saying is, your mother needs to do this.”
“No she doesn’t, Abu!” Now I’m really yelling, some internal voice says. “Pakistanis don’t have issues!” I shouldn’t be yelling at my father. “And Fantsy going off to get an epiphany and marrying some bloody expat! I’m sick of these people.”
“Fantsy’s not going to leave, is he?” her father asks, aghast.
“No. I don’t know. He hasn’t said.”
“Did you ask?”
“I’m not going to, Abu. He should have sense enough to say.”
“That pride comes from your mother, too.”
“Yes, well, she’s not all bad.”
“Gul.”
“Yes, well. It’s been a very ‘Gul’-heavy day, Abu. I’ve had it with introspection. Bugger it all. Historical narrative my Alexandrian arse! What do you want for breakfast?”
“What breakfast?”
“I thought we were making him breakfast.”
“Sonu’s not here yet. Let him come and insinuate first.”
“Abu, I didn’t know I was this angry.”
“To be honest, Gongles, I didn’t know either.”
“I’m sorry I yelled at you.”
“That’s what you’re worried about?”
“What else should I be worried about?”
“Never mind. I’ll worry instead. You’re forgiven for yelling. Remember that. Some other Pathan baap would whip you good.”
“Yes, Abu.”
“You don’t buy it?”
“Whatever you say Abu.”
“Don’t Abu me.”
“Okay. What will you –“
“If you ask me what I’m going to worry about, I really will give it to you, Gul.”
“Sorry. Okay. Anyway. Breakfast?”
“Just don’t come home one morning saying you want to be buried in a playground.”
She takes a deep breath. Okay, comic turn. Wind-down time. Good. “It has a romantic feel to it, I have to say.”
“Just what I need. Everyone saying, ‘Rehber Zaman, you know him. Buried his daughter in the park. Under a swing.”
“That does have an interesting ring to it, though. Very, I don’t know, very fairytale.”
“Your mother always thought so.”
Gongloo stares.
He continues, “She wanted to be buried in the park. Under the swings. I was flabbergasted first time I heard it. Then, when I didn’t know much about her or her weird ideas, it used to frighten me into having a shouting match. So we’d sit on the swings and shout. About whether or not she’d be buried under the swings. Can you believe that?”
“But – ” Gongloo has a look of complete horror and disgust on her face. “But everyone would scrape her as they swung!”
“It is a little ghastly.”
“With their feet all over her grave!”
“I know, bachay.”
“But she’s the one who taught me that you don’t walk on graves! That you don’t bury people without solemnity and visit them without a prayer! Every time we went to visit Nana, every time! Dupatta on the head, hands up front. Salam as you enter the gate. Flowers on the graves. Fatiha. People are buried facing Makka, you know that? I knew that when I was four because of Amma.”
Her father remains silent. Somewhere inside, Gongloo’s emergency system is saying, he tricked you. He wanted you to keep talking when you wanted to shut down. That’s why he mentioned the swings. You know that. Walk away. Make eggs.
But that voice is so tiny, she thinks to herself. It’s so tiny now. How?
“And you know, he came here to die,” she continues, pacing around the room now. “Nana came here and he knew he was dying. Amma denies it now, but she knew then. She told me that too. He came here to die, with us. Dragged Nani along and bloody Apiya – ”
“Gongloo!”
“Bloody stupid evil Apiya came along to fuck with all of us. But he didn’t care. He wanted to die here. Because he knew.”
“What did he know, Gongloo?”
She sits down suddenly, exhausted, and looks out the window. “It doesn’t matter.” After a while, she says, “I wish the pansies were growing still. Amma likes pansies.”
“Yes, Fantsy was always a favourite of hers.”
Gongloo guffaws involuntarily. “That’s why his mother’s so mean. Because he’s so floppy.”
“He’s got you to indulge him, though.”
“Epiphanizing bugger,” she mutters.
“True.”
“Someone ought to throw him out of the sky.”
“I’m sure some civic-minded person will someday.”
She stands up briskly and smoothes down the front of her kameez. “Well, if there is a God, then that person will be me.”
“I don’t think so.”
She stares into her father’s eyes for a moment, then says, “Abu, you’ve done enough sage Buddhist psychologist stuff for one morning, okay? Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing.”
“I only do what you let me.”
She rolls her eyes. “Imagine how that horrifies me.”
“Don’t be disrespectful,” he says sharply.
“Sorry Abu. But don’t think you’ve deterred me from hanging out in playgrounds with that awful ghoulish story.”
“The day I deter you, the bloody trumpet sounds. Acha, eggs. What about the eggs? Are you making this cake or is he going to come eat them all?”
A voice booms from the doorway, “Listen, you ravisher of donkeys, I can eat whatever the fuck I want in my brother’s house!”
“Hi, Sonu Chacha. How are – ”
“Listen, you blighter,” interrupts her father, “why can’t you use the tried and true, why do you have to get creative with the language?”
“But if I cease and desist,” he says, grinning and winking at Gongloo, “how will the language grow?”
“Which language, ass?”
“Any language? I mean, isn’t this how speech evolves?”
“Spake the slime at the bottom of the gene pool.”
“Lala, how are you?”
“Just dandy till you trundled up. Come to eat my eggs, have you?”
“My eggs. With paratthas, please, Gongloo. And how are you? You’re all flushed. Is it a boy?”
“Is it ever?”
“If you were in the village, you’d be a mother of three by now.”
“Instead, I’ve decided to become a hag. Or a crone. Crone, do you think?”
“Breakfast,” he replies imperiously. “Now.”
As she walks away, she hears her uncle ask, “Why’s she all red in the face?”
“Yelling. Mother.”
“Has she called or something?”
Gongloo rummages loudly in the kitchen. She doesn’t really want to hear the conversation. Fantsy, Fantsy, Fantsy, she thinks to herself. Am I supposed to see him today? No, can’t be, I saw him last night, didn’t I? What am I doing today? It’s only ten. How could it only be ten, it’s already been such a long day. I’d be devastated if Fantsy fell out of the sky. Or got a divorce.