Boats on Land: A Collection of Short Stories (11 page)

With that, he left the room, slamming the door behind him. Suleiman put away the scissors. He’d rather not have them lying around.

Later, the town settled into the quiet of the evening, its shops shuttered and streets emptied by the curfew. Looking out of their windows, people would say, ‘Not a soul outside, not even a dog.’ The uneasy silence deepened with the blackout at six o’clock. It had been announced over a loudspeaker on a KSU van driving through Shillong that it was mandatory to switch off the lights, to paste newspaper over window-panes so even the glow of a candle would be subdued. It was a sign of protest, the KSU declared, but they didn’t mention it also helped turn entire neighbourhoods into battlegrounds where rebels and the police alike were offered shelter by the darkness. For the people who stayed indoors, this was a time to huddle around coal fires, take out a well-thumbed pack of cards, or set out the carrom board. Otherwise, there was little to while away the hours. Suleiman usually ate his dinner early and lay on his bed until he fell asleep. This evening, though, he was making a kite. The radio crackled softly in the corner, playing a programme called ‘Songs of India’ that attempted, through a selection of folk music, to invoke patriotic camaraderie among its listeners. He left it on mostly to keep the silence at bay. Else, he would only hear the wind outside, swooping over the hills. The guava tree near the window tapped on the roof. In the distance there were shouts of a fight or a call for dinner; it was hard to tell. He’d cut out the tissue paper earlier before daylight faded, and now was carefully pasting them together with gluey rice. The smaller the pieces, the better. The kite would resist tears and could be easily mended. It was going to be a large one; the bamboo slivers lay waiting to be bound together into a frame. He was almost done when the first stone hit the roof. And then another. They rolled off and fell to the ground in dull, solid thuds. Tonight he hadn’t been called any names, but in alarm, he’d pulled at the tissue paper, and it lay on the floor torn and ruined.

The next afternoon, as Suleiman expected, the young man reappeared. This time he waved amiably at the tailor as he walked across the courtyard. He knocked once.

‘It’s open.’

He entered and shut the door carefully behind him.

‘Kumno dorji.’

‘I’m busy.’

‘Yes, of course.’

Suleiman was measuring fabric on the ironing table. The young man stood behind him.

‘Kwai?’ he offered, holding out betel nut and paan wrapped in a torn scrap of newspaper.

‘No, it’s alright.’ The tailor straightened up. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘Banri. My name’s Banri.’

Suleiman moved to the sewing machine. The young man followed.

‘I was hoping…you could help me…’

‘Do you need something mended?’

The boy hesitated. ‘It’s not really about that…’

‘Which number came up yesterday? In the second round.’

The young man rushed forward in excitement. ‘See, that’s the thing…eight. Just like you said.’

Suleiman bent over the machine, stringing up new thread, hiding a smile.

Banri pulled up a moora and sat close to him.

‘Can you tell me what will come today?’

‘It depends.’

‘On what?’

‘Do you remember your dream?’

He shook his head. ‘That’s the thing, I never remember my dreams. But Don, he’s a mechanic I work with, he told me his dream this morning. Will that do?’ He looked hopeful.

Suleiman shrugged.

‘Don said he dreamed he was in a boat, you know in Ward’s Lake, there was no one else around. Just him in this boat, and he didn’t know how to get back to the bank. He had no oars, nothing. Suddenly these two huge fish jumped into his lap. Two live fish. What do you think that means?’

Carefully, the tailor arranged Kong Belinda’s jaiñsem under the needle, in a neat, straight line. He picked up a piece of chalk and made a few illegible marks on the fabric.

‘Try five and nine.’

‘Five and nine…okay.’

Banri was about to light a cigarette when he stopped. ‘You don’t mind me smoking here? No? Alright, khublei.’ He settled himself comfortably on the moora. ‘Dorji, how do you do it?’

‘How do I do what?’

‘These dreams and numbers.’

Suleiman stopped working the machine. He straightened the cloth. ‘Everything in the world runs on calculations.’

‘But…’ Banri laughed. ‘I get it, you’re like a magician, who doesn’t reveal his tricks.’

‘Go make your bet and then tell me if you think this is trickery.’

‘Hey, relax, I was only joking.’

The young man didn’t wait to finish his cigarette, he offered Suleiman more kwai, and then hurried out. The closest thoh teem shops were up the hill in Mawkhar, and the tailor assumed that was where Banri was headed. He put away the jaiñsem and smoked a beedi by the window. In the sky, he could see two kites engaged in a fight, each desperately trying to cut the other’s manja. They danced around each other like birds performing an ancient, ritualistic dance, until one slowly swung low and dropped out of sight.

In Mawkhar, thoh teem shops sprouted in tiny nooks and crevices, in side rooms and makeshift tin stalls and spaces under stairs. The warren of alleyways in Iew Duh spilled into the Mawkhar neighbourhood, and its streets were packed with small local shops. Bakeries sold Khasi sweets on white melamine counters—piles of long, twisted deep fried dough coated in sugar, warm, sticky slabs of rice putharo, and deep bowls of lal mohan swimming in syrup. There were shops that sold clothes and wool by the kilo, while some were lined with shelves of cheap, fake leather shoes. Further away from this, after the spread of residential houses, along the road leading out of town, began the rows of car workshops, each with their own graveyard of abandoned parts and automobiles. Somewhere in the middle, no less grimy and greasy than the others, was Bah Heh’s workshop where Banri worked.

As he could be found on most afternoons, Bah Heh was lounging in a chair, lazily strumming a guitar.

‘How many roads must a man walk down…’ he sang, ‘before you can call him a man…’ Having forgotten the rest of the lyrics, he made do with tuneful humming. The day was unusually warm and humid, and Bah Heh roused himself by shouting at the mechanics in his workshop. They went about doing their jobs paying him no attention; they were accustomed to his attempts at feeling important.

‘All of you buggers, hungover from last night, I know it.’

‘What else to do but drink when there’s curfew in the evening?’ said Don, walking past with a bucket of dirty, soapy water.

‘You only need some excuse, useless bastards.’

‘Actually even when there’s no curfew I drink every evening,’ mumbled Khraw as he hunched over an engine, and tinkered with the battery.

‘And where’s that idiot Banri? Has he found himself a woman or what?’

‘No, a tailor,’ said Don, and Khraw sniggered.

‘She’s a tailor?’

‘No, some dkhar guy he’s become friends with. He’s been visiting him every day now…for at least a week.’

‘See here, I don’t want any trouble in my workshop. Who’s this dkhar?’

‘You can ask him yourself,’ said Khraw pointing to the gate. Banri was strolling in with a plastic bag in his hand.

‘Time-out mo, Bah Heh,’ he announced as he approached.

‘Time-out? Where do you think you are? A basketball court?’

‘I have momos for everyone.’ From the plastic bag he drew out a banana leaf packet tied in string.

Khraw and Don crowded around.

‘What’s the treat for, bro?’

‘You and the tailor getting married?’

Even Bah Heh joined in the laughter.

Banri ignored them; he undid the small plastic packet of virulent red chilli sauce and poured it over the dumplings.

‘I won, only the first round. But still…’

‘Again? At thoh teem? But you never win…’ Don sounded justifiably incredulous.

‘What jadoo-mantar has this tailor been doing?’ Khraw bit into a momo, the pork and onion filling, shiny with oil and fat, oozed out of its floury skin.

‘Nothing,’ said Banri quickly. He hadn’t explained in too much detail how Suleiman could interpret dreams, or as the tailor said mysteriously, ‘calculate the value of symbols.’ ‘Anyway, never mind all that. The important thing is I won.’

Bah Heh reached for the plumpest dumpling in the pile. ‘Okay, everybody hurry up and eat…plenty of work to be done.’

Half an hour later, there was another interruption—a group of young men walked in through the gate. Banri recognized some faces—they were from lower Wahingdoh and Umsohsun. They went up to Bah Heh and instructed him, politely and firmly, to keep the workshop shut the next day.

‘For the rally,’ said the one who was evidently the leader of the pack. He had a smooth, clean-shaven head and face. ‘We hope all of you will be attending? Yes? Good. Good. We need our youth to support us. After all, this is for your future benefit only.’ His eyes glinted as he looked them over; they rested on Banri who was wiping his greasy hands on an even greasier rag. ‘This rally will be big; the government must listen to us this time. Remember,’ he ended with practised ease, ‘it all depends on your support.’ They trooped out like a small, determined army, and headed to the next workshop.

‘Great,’ said Khraw. ‘Holiday tomorrow.’

‘Which means you do extra hours today and the day after. Now get back to work, scumbags.’

Don disappeared beneath the stout, rounded frame of an Ambassador, Khraw continued tinkering with the engine. Banri wet a sponge and soaped the vehicle. Something in the air had changed, it hung clenched and heavy above them, tight as a fist. There was no teasing and chatter, the workshop was quiet. They worked without saying a word. Bah Heh strummed the guitar for a while and then put it away.

Later that evening, Suleiman applied the finishing touches to his new kite after he returned from a quick shopping trip to the market. It had a bold red body with a neat collage of multicoloured paper in the middle and indigo blue seams pasted on the slim bamboo frame. He held it up by the string, and let it swing gently in front of him. Its shadow swayed across the floor. It seemed well balanced and strong, and would make a good fighter, he was sure. Maybe tomorrow, if the wind was right, he’d test it and find out. As he put the kite away, a shout from the street startled him. He was nervous today, more than usually on edge after he returned from the market. A group of Khasi youth had followed him, or so he thought. Or they could have been going somewhere the same way. It was hard to tell. He’d walked a convoluted route back home, and eventually lost them in the crowd. It wasn’t getting easier, he thought. How much longer could he… Suddenly, someone rapped softly on the door.

‘Ei, dorji…let me in.’

Suleiman didn’t move.

‘Hurry, it’s cold out here.’

He undid the latch, not opening the door very wide.

‘Why are you here?’

‘Let me in.’

He stepped aside; Banri entered the room with a brown paper bag under his arm.

‘Why are you here?’ he repeated.

‘Well, I thought, you know, it’s been a good week…I won at thoh teem a few times. Even today, you were right. Well, you were half right. I won the first round. I thought we should celebrate.’ He drew out a bottle of rum.

‘No, no.’ Suleiman moved swiftly to the stove where a pot of rice bubbled gently. ‘I’m cooking dinner now.’ Banri pulled up a stool and sat next to him.

‘Come on, we must celebrate.’

‘I don’t feel like drinking.’

‘Nonsense.’

‘No, really…’

‘Just a little, no harm.’ Banri was brazenly cheerful. Suleiman detected the faint odour of alcohol on his breath; this wasn’t his first drink of the evening. His uninvited guest plucked two tumblers from the shelf and turned on the radio. It crackled to life with the local news:

‘…the shoot-out at Laban last week. There have been minor cases of unrest throughout the town, and encounters between the KSU and CRPF continue. Bah Lyngdoh, the Superintendent of Police, says security will be tight, especially with the KSU rally planned for tomorrow…’

‘Let’s find some music,’ said Banri. He fiddled with the tuner, but failed to coax out anything more tuneful than static and fragments of the news.

‘I’ll do it,’ said the tailor. ‘You pour the drinks.’

‘That’s an old radio.’ Banri measured out generous amounts of dark rum.

‘It belonged to my father.’ He turned the tuner gently, and finally, it caught a station playing Hindi music. ‘He brought it with him when we came to Shillong in ’55.’

‘From where did you come?’

‘Lucknow…in Uttar Pradesh. You know where that is?’

‘Yes, of course. Near Bihar. Now drink.’ Banri slugged his alcohol like most other hardened drinkers in town. A few quick, neat gulps.

Suleiman followed, albeit slower.

‘You came so long ago…why didn’t you go back?’

‘My father didn’t want to. He said our old hometown was filled with sad memories, and this was a fresh, new start.’ He took a sip. ‘My mother died when I was born.’

‘Ei, sorry to hear that.’

Suleiman shrugged. ‘I didn’t know her at all. I didn’t even miss her.’

‘You’ve been around here longer than me.’ Banri poured himself a refill.

‘That might be true but it makes no difference; people still throw stones at my house.’ Suleiman gulped his drink. His eyes were slightly glazed. ‘They call me all sorts of names… bastard outsider.’

‘Don’t worry, they throw stones at me too, dorji.’

‘No, they don’t, you lie,’ he said with sudden vehemence. ‘Only at mine and others like me.’

‘What I meant was… Here, calm down. I’m sorry…’

The candle spluttered and crackled, it was beginning to burn low. Banri handed the tailor a replenished tumbler. ‘Tell me about your father.’

Suleiman stirred the rice; it was dry and almost done. ‘He was a radio operator with All India Radio; he worked for them most of his life.’

‘And now…?’

‘He passed away three years ago. In a way I’m thankful… before this trouble got bad.’

Banri swirled his glass, watching the alcohol catch the candlelight. ‘I never knew my father. He died when I was three. Too much drinking.’