Ghost Boys Read online

  GHOST BOYS

  SHENAAZ NANJI

  ©2017 Shenaaz Nanji

  Except for purposes of review, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form without prior permission of the publisher.

  We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts for our publishing program. We also acknowledge support from the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Arts Council.

  Cover design by Susan Chafe

  Cover photo courtesy of Mikal Hockley

  Author photo: D’Angelo Photography

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Nanji, Shenaaz, author

    Ghost boys / Shenaaz Nanji.

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-988449-13-5 (softcover).—ISBN 978-1-988449-23-4 (HTML)

    I. Title.

  PS8577.A573G46 2017    jC813’.54    C2017-904411-7

                       C2017-904412-5

  Mawenzi House Publishers Ltd.

  39 Woburn Avenue (B)

  Toronto, Ontario M5M 1K5

  Canada

  www.mawenzihouse.com

  With love to my son Astrum and daughter Shaira

  Contents

  Didi’s Homecoming

  The Cremation

  Barrier

  Searching for a Job

  Sweet News

  Farewell

  The City of God & Gold

  Master

  The Truck Ride

  At the Ousbah

  The Camel Trainers

  Stable Chores

  Weighing Day

  Babur

  The Camel Boys

  Learning to Ride

  The Camel Ride

  Munna’s Revenge

  Retrieving His Passport: The First Try

  The Racing Track

  Racing Season

  The Sandstorm

  A Head Storm

  Story Time

  The Canadian Girl

  Avra’s Place

  Progress With the Passport, and Riding a Camel

  Rani’s Baby

  Baby Iman

  A Stroke of Genius

  Feast Days in the Desert

  Arrogant Akber

  Dune Surfing With the Boys

  Confession Day

  The Trial Race

  A True Captain

  Everyone Has Sad Stories

  The Day Before the Race

  The Gold Sword Race

  Testing Teddy

  Reward and Farewell

  The Last Day: You Have His Eyes

  Author’s Note

  Sources

  Acknowledgements

  Questions and Ideas for Discussion

  The Arabian Sea Area

  Didi’s Homecoming

  Guj, India (2004)

  Munna was on the last set of his hundred push-ups when a screeching bird crashed into the rusty window grill outside. Crows were the harbingers of doom, but to Munna’s relief this bird was not a crow—unless white crows existed.

  With every rise of a push-up, he glimpsed on the wall before him the dappled dancing patterns of the shadows cast by the branches of the Neem tree outside. All the walls were stained with soot and grime—he made a mental note to clean them. Nothing would escape his elder sister’s sharp eyes.

  The bird flew across to the Neem tree and came crashing at the window again, and then back and forth it went, repeating its madness. Bonk-bonk-bonk. Silly bird, he thought. No way could it peck holes into his joy. Lost in his dreamworld, Munna imagined himself as Salman Khan, the actor, always risking his life to save others; he did have Salu’s smile, but when would he get those amazing six-pack abs?

  “Bhaiya,” his sister, Meena, said, holding up against her slender neck a paper necklace she had cut from an old Femina magazine. “Nice, no?”

  Munna sat up, sweat streaming down his face. “I’ll get a solid gold one for you on your Big Day,” he said, though not sure how he would manage to do it. Meena, however, stretched her list of desirables: “And matching earrings and bangles and a nice purse . . .”

  Their one-room flat in the chawl or tenement-house was steaming hot. Ma, who catered meals for a living, was cooking a special meal for Didi’s homecoming, following her wedding last night. Over the charcoal stove was a big black pan of sizzling curry, on the floor were plates of aloo gobi, bhindi, parathas, and mango pudding, Didi’s favorite.

  Didi’s actual name was Asha, Hope, but to him she was Didi, elder sister. As the brother of the bride, Munna would welcome the newly-wed couple home. And as they stepped inside, his other sisters, Reshma and Meena would throw rose petals to welcome them. Ma would bless them and they’d eat the special meal.

  The angry bird crashed once more against the window again, this time with more force, thrashing its white wings and screeching like a banshee. The bowl in Reshma’s hands fell, scattering the rose petals on the cement floor.

  “Oh God!” Ma cried out, pressing her hands over her mouth. This could mean bad luck.

  “It’s fine, Ma.” Munna went and sat down beside his nervous mother, pressing his cheek against hers. “The silly bird’s blind as a bat.”

  “Ha, its pecking at its reflection,” observed Meena with a chuckle.

  Reshma began to sweep the floor. Munna ducked his head out the window to wave the bird away. A wetness plopped on his arm. He wiped the insult with the rag, when there came a knock on the door.

  Meena opened the door and to Munna’s immense surprise, Uncle Suraj waddled in, his large flat feet crammed inside a dainty pair of gold-embroidered mojri, swaying from side to side, one hand on the umbrella, the other holding Didi’s arm.

  Munna gaped. Why had their meddling uncle brought Didi? And, why was she still in her red bridal sari? And . . . and where was the groom, his brother-in-law, Raju? Didi’s gaze was downcast, the red powder streak of sindoor in her hair-parting, denoting her married status, was missing.

  Ma came forward. “Bhai-Jaan, what is the meaning of this?”

  “Sister-ji,” said Uncle, with a sorry look, “Didi has been returned.”

  “I’m sorry.” Didi put her head on Ma’s chest and sobbed.

  “My dear girl,” said Ma, putting her hand over Didi’s head.

  Munna’s hands balled into angry fists. “I’ll kill that stupid Raju.”

  “Shhh,” said Ma. “It’s our kismet. What is, will be.”

  Uncle said that Didi’s father-in-law had called him to take Didi back because he felt insulted at the measly wedding gifts received, especially as his son was an engineer. Uncle mimicked the father-in-law. “Where is the big-screen TV?” “Where is the gold jewellery? No gold, no bride.”

  Munna gripped at his marble collection in his pocket. A rejected bride was a disgrace to the family regardless of the circumstances. He knew that dowry was illegal in India. The law stated: Dowry is a two-way street: unless there is a giver there can be no taker, so both could be persecuted. Still, to give Didi a good start, Ma had borrowed money from Uncle and given her in-laws a refrigerator, a sewing machine, a set of stainless-steel utensils, and a pressure cooker.

  They were all filled with a deep sense of shame and grief. On top of that, Munna felt an intense anger. Was this one more outcome of the curse he had been born with?

  They sat down on the bed
sheet on the floor to eat. Didi excused herself and left with a bundle of clothes to wash. Uncle was the only one who ate.

  The meal over, Munna went to look for Didi. Past the hallway—their flat was on the topmost floor of the six-storey chawl—down sixty-six fat stone steps into the dark bowels of the building to the communal bathrooms on the ground floor shared by all the tenants. Didi’s beaded slippers lay outside the plumbing room that led to the wash area outside. He smiled: he would surprise her. Creeping into the dark, dank room, past a hot-water tank, he almost tripped over a fallen stool—oops—and bumped into a pair of legs dangling in the air.

  He looked up at the network of water pipes in the ceiling. Suspended from one of them, Didi swung pendulum-like, head fallen on one side, neck coiled in the red bridal sari, two limp eyes staring down at him pitifully.

  He screamed, but no sound came, except for a bird caw-cawing lustily outside.

  The Cremation

  As always it was the darkest just before dawn. Munna saw flecks of electric-blue fireflies twinkling in the darkness and heard the crickets chirping as he stood barefoot and bare-chested on the river bank, where the townsfolk of Guj held cremations. He wore a white loincloth, a pot of holy water cradled in the crook of his arm for the rite. Was Didi really gone? He dared not look down at the pyre on which her body lay.

  The breeze prickled his chest, limbs, and scalp, which was shaved clean for the ritual. He was glad the dark hid him. He could make out the silhouettes of the few mourners huddled around him. Ma and his sisters were home since women did not attend cremations. If only he had his marbles; they were his prayer beads, but the loincloth he wore had no pockets.

  The mourners chanted prayers in low, sorrowful tones.

  Still, Munna did not dare look down. His toes curled tight as a baby’s fist. No god would damn a day-old bride. Unless . . . unless the curse that was on him was more powerful than the wishes of a god. His chest heaved. He was bad, bad, bad. If only he could run away from the bad inside him.

  Duty first. His duty was to set alight the pyre when the sun rose. A male close relation had to carry out this rite. His father had run away long ago, leaving him as the only male member in his family. He gazed at the sky, intrigued as to why some things in life were sure and predictable: the sun would rise, no matter what. Sure enough, a weak lemony sun rose above the clay-tiled roofs of the distant buildings as the sky unfolded her silk-sari pleats of saffron and sherbet, the color of new beginnings. Any moment, the roosters would announce the new day.

  Instead, red-breasted bulbuls, perched on the branch of the enormous mango tree nearby, sang, chic-chok chic-chok, giving him the courage to lower his gaze.

  The pyre was veiled by sandalwood smoke. Peeking through the smoke, a pile of twigs draped with marigold petals and . . . and a pair of dainty feet stuck out, soles stained with henna, the sensual wedding decoration said to please the groom and guarantee marital bliss.

  Baba-ji, the old priest who had tried to remove his curse long ago, poured molten golden ghee on the pyre, lit the holy kusha twig, and gave it to Munna.

  “Go round three times,” he instructed with a counter-clockwise gesture.

  Munna nodded. Everything was backwards in death. He firmed up his grip on the pot and dragged his leaden legs onward in the first circle round the pyre. Didi was barely five feet tall, but she had been big in his life. Long ago, she once caught sight of a few boys making fun of the steel hoop in his ear. She took out a bottle of red chilies from her shopping basket and made to throw it at them and they scuttled away. Now she was gone.

  In his second time round the pyre, Didi’s wedding ceremony rewound in his mind. She looked dazzling in her red sari, which was embroidered with silver zari, her face adorned with strings of jasmines, behind which peeked out her large kohl-rimmed eyes. He had offered a branch of mango leaves to Didi as a symbol of fertility, whispering, I hope to be a proud uncle of eleven nephews, enough for a cricket team. He was one of the best batsmen in the cricket team at school. She had smiled coyly. Then the bridal couple rose. Didi’s sari was tied to the groom’s kurta and the couple circled the fire clockwise, pledging vows of commitment to each other . . .

  Someone waved a knife at him.

  “Beta, the rounds are over,” Uncle Suraj said with a smile, his false teeth flashing. His sequined cap hid his baldness, but not the hair in his ears that had to be the longest in town; the faux gold buttons on his sherwani, as big as goose eggs, twinkled.

  Munna held out the pot for Uncle, who stabbed it with his knife.

  The holy water spilled out. Munna dropped the pot to symbolize the release of Didi’s soul, the crash echoing eerily in his ears, recalling to his mind the spooky monsoon night long ago when his father had flung his beer bottle against the wall and run away, never to return. He tried to push the bad memory back. If only he had a pocket to hide his pain. Pockets were neat. Pockets kept things clean. If he was the Creator, he would ensure everyone had deep pockets—a grief pocket, a shame pocket, a fear pocket, a dream pocket . . . then their feelings would stay put. Not run into each other. Life would be clutter-free.

  He lifted his gaze a little. Hai, the mourners were waiting for him to light the pyre. He raised the flare, his red rakhi dangling on his wrist. Didi had tied it during the festival when brothers and sisters express their love and duty to each other.

  He had failed to protect Didi. Failed-failed. The word tolled like temple bells in his ears. Chilled to the marrow, he began to shake like a leaf.

  “Give me the flare,” said Uncle.

  “I’ll do it,” said Munna.

  He lowered the flare and lit the pyre. The twigs flared and snapped, red tongues of flames dancing. Baba-ji stoked the fire with a long pole to keep it burning. The fire would burn for a few hours, after which Uncle had arranged for the ashes to be picked up and dispersed in the River Ganges. Munna wrenched himself away from the flaming pyre and headed home, carrying along with him the echo of the popping and crackling of bones and the odor of burning flesh, his curse taunting him: You can’t beat me.

  He ran down the alley, the rocky ground jabbing his bare feet, past a cow resting by the side of the road, then cut across the cricket field until he reached home. Reaching the stairs, he sank into his hidey-hole, where he had played Barrier in his dark moments since he was six.

  Born after three girls, he was said to be cursed. When he was just over three, his drunken father ran away, and Munna fell seriously sick. Doctors failed to treat him, so Ma had taken him to the priest to remove the curse.

  Old Baba-ji had shaken his head and said, Daughter, you can’t escape the law. God gave you a son after three daughters and that curse will remain with you forever. The curse is like the car rolling down the hill. You can’t stop it. But I will try to alleviate his suffering.

  Munna remembered feeling queasy as he put his head on Ma’s lap and she pulled up his t-shirt. Chanting mantras, Baba-ji took a needle and made a tick mark on his forehead, stomach, and big toe; he made a cross on a paan-leaf and told Ma to place it at a busy crossroad. He pierced Munna’s ear and changed his name from Anand to Munna, telling Ma that this way the curse would be led astray.

  Now Didi was dead. It must be his fault. The curse was back.

  Barrier

  In the days following Didi’s cremation, a fog of shame and scandal hung over the family. Ma received fewer orders to cater for, as if the food she cooked now was tainted. Gossip buzzed like hungry flies gorging on a ripe-rotten guava in their back alley. People’s looks said: So sorry. They knew about Munna’s curse and their runaway father, and Didi’s death had further eroded their aabroo, honor.

  On Sunday morning Munna awoke with a groggy head. He struggled in the darkness of his mind, groping for something to hold on to, anything to return him to the world as it had been when Didi was alive. He picked up his marb
les and inspected them: crystals, devil’s eye, galaxies, swirlies, oilies. What a collection, they could be the world’s rarest. Glass globes rounded to perfection. If only he could crawl inside one of them and touch the rainbow swirls floating like clouds in heaven. He flung an old marble against the wall to crack it.

  “Prince, breakfast’s ready,” Meena said and sprinkled cold water on his face.

  He went to sit beside Ma on the floor, and began nibbling warm poori. Ma was frying onions on the big black pan over the charcoal stove, her face gleaming with sweat and soot. The red bindi on her forehead signified that she was still married. A lie. Her husband, his father, was likely dead. They had never heard from him. But Ma held on to her fantasy that her knight in kurta would return. Of late, she had begun to observe a ritual of fasting for a whole day, as a sacrifice to the gods for ensuring her husband’s long life.

  His gaze shifted to his sisters. Soon they too would marry. Reshma, soft and self-effacing, might be bullied by her in-laws, but Meena with her sharp tongue would be fine.

  “Nice?” asked Reshma.

  Before he could reply, they had a visitor. Lalita, the fashionable wife of a rich businessman, hurriedly spoke with Ma at the door, and left.

  Ma shut the door and turned around. “The big order is cancelled,” she said in a teary voice.

  Lalita was their prized customer. Already, they were knee-deep in debt to Uncle for Didi’s wedding expense. Munna did odd jobs after school, serving tea at Viram Bhai’s roadside stall and cleaning Kanji Bhai’s restaurant, but that barely paid his school fees. He worried. How would they pay Reshma’s and Meena’s dowries when they married? If his sisters grew too old to get grooms, they would grow old without families . . . or follow Didi’s fate? A noose hung around their necks.

  He walked over to the window and gazed into the back alley, where boys from the neighborhood were playing marbles. One of them, Raja, held up his fingers to show the devil’s horn, teasing Munna about his curse; the others laughed.