Kruti Brahmbhatt
Like Sailors on a Deserted Island
Tahira is late. Customers throng at the closing time. She hands out wrong items, apologizes for the mix-up. By the time she crosses Lajpat Nagar station on the Violet Line, the sun has dipped behind restless scooters and yellow-green auto rickshaws. When any of her children are in trouble, she panics. As she walks towards home, an auto rickshaw moves past her, plunging itself in a puddle and staining her white salwar with muddy water. Tahira dabs at her forehead with the lavender square of a folded handkerchief. The road looks like a colorful rag littered with broken bottles and slippers, cigarette butts, plastic bags, rotten vegetables, and other things.
When she reaches her apartment, she finds Maryam doodling over a glossy front page of the newspaper. She has just gotten up, face unwashed, kohl-smeared eyes, hair flattened sideways, still in her uniform—white shirt and navy skirt. A wet, dusty smell emanates from the rain. Tahira opens the window. Leaden clouds have settled over the city.
“What exactly happened, joon?” Tahira asks as she sits down on the only plastic chair in the drawing room.
Maryam says that on her way to school, an Afghan man wearing a green turban followed her. In a narrow street, he overtook her and turned around with a pointed knife in his hand. His eyes were blood-red, his face wrinkled. He disappeared in the next lane before she could shout.
“You should have called the police right away.”
Maryam nods, her eyes fixed on Tahira’s feet.
“Why didn’t you call the police?” Maryam continues to look at Tahira, her head tilted. “You can’t go numb like that.”
Tahira is surprised at the words she has uttered. She remembers how numb she felt when she escaped her in-laws’ place. They had asked her to marry her brother-in-law after her husband died. She woke in the middle of the night, covered herself and her four children under a black shawl, and walked all the way to her parent’s home. As she prepares biryani for dinner, she wonders if her in-laws could hire a man to threaten them.
The electricity is gone. Tahira opens the window to let the moonlight enter the room. The children are singing songs from Hindi movies. The Afghan accents have mostly disappeared from their speech just as the memories of their childhood. Tahira fumbles to find candles in the drawers. It’s hard to see, just the headlights shining through the bushes and the moonlight approaching hazily through fog. Tahira finds a candle and places it on a desk. As she lights a candle, she sees Maryam with tiny drops of sweat around her nose staring out of the window. She holds Maryam’s hand, draws her closer.
Lajpat Nagar is a quiet place. Even in the midst of an energy crisis, there isn’t any uproar. People, mostly refugees from Somalia, Sudan, and Syria live around Tahira’s apartment. The newcomers reach out to one another for help in order to solve everyday problems of migration: how to find a job, get financial help, learn skills to manage in a new country. Tahira sits in a balcony where she could hear sounds of different people, sounds of their festivals, music, and prayers.
As soon as the electricity resumes, Tahira serves dinner. “Have made Maryam’s favorite biryani,” Tahira says, pouring daal in chipped bowls. The children sit in a circle.
“How was your day, Karim jan?” Tahira asks.
“Good,” Karim says, looking up. “My boss wants me to teach American accent to the next batch as well.”
“Teach me, please,” Maryam begs. “I want to work in your call center too.”
“You’ll speak in American English before your next birthday, I promise.”
Tahira helps her children to a second round of biryani. She asks Karim to buy a new phone once he receives his first salary. Karim says that he has already chosen a model. He wants to take everybody out for a movie on Zia’s birthday.
“I have some money in my piggy bank, too.” Little Kabir points at a brown piggy bank parked on a broken wooden table. After watching India’s Got Talent, Tahira makes a bed in her drawing room. She sleeps surrounded by the youngest, Zia and Kabir, while Maryam and Karim sleep on the outer sides. Zia and Kabir demand a story. Tahira repeats the story of Nasruddin. “Once upon a time Nasruddin was resting under the shade of a walnut tree,” Tahira begins. Tahira stops midway when she sees Zia and Kabir fast asleep. She tries to sleep, but her thoughts drift to Hussein.
Hussein was a widower she had met near a mosque. They were messaging throughout last summer. They had arranged rendezvous in a park where they spoke quietly under the clouds, glimpsing occasionally at other couples around. Then they had met at his home after his children left for school. “It's so quiet when they are gone, isn't it?” Tahira had said sitting on the sofa consciously away from him. “I don't know how you manage them with your travelling.” The man had rolled the sleeves of his navy shirt to his elbows and loosened his necktie. When he touched her to unpin her hair and let it fall down her back, she let her head lie against his hand as if she was waiting for it. The man had brought his face close to hers, mumbling her name over and over. “Tahira,” he said, and she let him kiss her once before she broke free, thinking how foolish she had been to come. She had worn a silk dress which he had presented her a few days back, a V-neck with soft draping.
The first time Tahira had taken her clothes off, she had known the depth of her loneliness, and it had shaken her to think how far she might go to fill it. Only later had she felt the shame of what she did, but she was able to brush it aside as a rightful compensation for enduring the travails of the refugee life. During that time, she took longer than needed for the errands she said she was heading out to accomplish. In ten months, Hussein got posted in Chennai and things cooled down on their own. Tahira missed him, but she knew they could not be together.
* * *
In the early morning, Tahira walks fast. A bearded man with sagging cheeks is following her. Could he be the man who followed Maryam? As Tahira stands her ground, looking at him, visor down, heart pounding, firmly gripping a red brick she picked up from roadside ready to throw it at the man and run faster than he could follow with his limping leg, the man turns away suddenly and walks back to the deserted street he emerged from. Rusty shops selling lingerie, ready-made clothes, and utensils stand on both sides of the street. Along with the paan stains are scattered poorly printed posters of services ranging from locksmiths, plumbers, astrologers, visa consultants, to doctors who cure venereal diseases. The shops are yet to open. Tahira is walking along the street. She doesn’t look back. That’s all—it’s nothing. Maybe the man isn’t really following her. A gust of wind fills the street with a smell of burning rags.
When not in haste, Tahira takes the metro. She crosses eight stations to Chhatarpur, where a known autowallah waits by the tea stall to take her to the Dastkar Bazaar. But she is late. She hops on the auto from Lajpat Nagar instead. She looks back and doesn’t see the bearded man. She has experienced being stalked on this route. It’s nothing unusual. Tahira’s response is a blank look, mostly. She knows how to discourage men without pissing them off. Her behavior owes little to her own feelings on the matter, which are nonexistent, but more to the array of work to be done, for which she is often late. She is not particularly beautiful—her eyebrows too thin, her nose too big, her thighs too thick—but men like her anyway.
Tahira reaches the Dastkar Bazaar fifteen minutes late. Inside the bazaar, she strides past the shops of pashmina, handmade jewelry, and handbags to get to the Afghan food stall. She enters the faded red tent, greets the other members, and puts on her apron, plastic gloves, and cap with the logo of their stall, Ilham, which means positivity in Dari. She starts stirring chicken soup and Kabuli pulao. The aroma of pulao—rice cooked in the oven with a blend of saffron, black pepper, cardamom—settles around their stall. But Tahira herself isn’t fond of vegetarian dishes. Who eats vegetarian food? Her mother would have said. But Ilham has decided to include vegetarian dishes to attract more customers. Tahira runs the stall with five other Afghan refugees. Trinisha, a lady associated with a local NGO, helps them communicate in English.
“What is a khou-joor?” asks a lady in sophisticated South Delhi accent, adjusting a mauve pashmina over her sleeveless dress.
“Khoujoor,” Tahira corrects, then makes a gesture to show a round shape. “Like a donut.”
“It’s a dessert in the shape of a donut,” Trinisha adds.
“I’d like two Afghani chai and khoujoor, please.”
As Tahira brings the order and collects money from the lady, she calculates she needs six month’s salary to buy herself the pashmina the woman is wearing.
“Morons. They see you struggling with English but won’t switch to Hindi,” Trinisha says, gulping her second cup of Afghani chai.
“Maybe they think we don’t speak Hindi.” Tahira places kebabs in the oven. Tahira taught herself Hindi when she was a teenager in Kabul to understand Bollywood movies.
“But you said a word in Hindi. They should get the drift. Shouldn’t they? We need to prepare you to take orders in English.” Trinisha says. “I have arranged a tutor for a ten-day training next month.” Trinisha watches the influx of tired visitors for a few seconds and attracts several glances in return. Her dusky complexion, pointed nose, and bobbed hair sets her apart from the women inside the stall.
The Ilham women continue to chat as they prepare food. Conversations focus mainly on their families in Afghanistan and different ways to migrate to USA, UK, and Australia. Over a cup of Afghani chai, a woman narrates an incident about a distant relative from Ghor province who tried to run away from an abusive marriage. She left with her lover and an elderly aunt, who accompanied them to help them avoid suspicion. All three were killed by the Taliban. Tahira is not interested in these talks and makes a list of trade fairs in which they can put up their stall.
Trinisha has set up an office, a desk, and a chair outside the stall from where she attends calls. The customers place orders for anniversaries, birthdays, and corporate dinners. She peeps into the stall and asks Tahira if the bearded man still follows her. She nods. She says that she took refuge in a stranger’s home the other day. Trinisha is intrigued and demands more details.
“I had to knock on the door of an unknown family saying I was thirsty. I pleaded the lady on the other side to let me in. After a minute or two, she opened the door. I walked inside the house to make the goon believe I lived there.”
“Next time, lead him to a police station. Teach him a lesson,” Trinisha suggests. Zia rushes inside the tent like a storm.
“Ammi, I want potato chips.” Zia pulls the long scarf dangling from his mother’s shoulder. When she looks at her six-year-old baby boy, Tahira finds scraps of her family on his face—her father’s slim lips, mother’s blue eyes, and husband’s lopsided smile. Everybody in the Dastkar Bazaar knows her as Zia’s mother. She receives at least two complaints a day about Zia breaking some valuable thing in someone else’s stall. When Tahira instructs him not to harass anyone, he does not create trouble that day. But the next day he strikes back with extra vigor.
* * *
A few hours past bedtime, the phone cuts into the room. Tahira quickly picks up the phone. Farzana is on the other end. She is coming to visit them in Delhi. Tears stream down Tahira’s cheeks. The children wake up one by one, and she announces Farzana will visit them in a month. Tahira hasn’t seen any of her family members in the last five years.
She switches on the TV and watches the old Hindi serials she used to watch in Kabul with her family. The serials with five-year leap and ten-year leap, characters dying and characters coming back to life—they are never-ending sagas. She isn’t fond of them but watches them at times because her family in Kabul watches them. When she sees a brother-sister duo in a television show, she remembers studying with Khalid before the exams. She’d pretend to sleep so Khalid would fall off to sleep, too, and then she used to get up and study to score better marks. Tahira turns off the television and comes to the balcony. An edge of the full moon has started to unveil itself as mountains of clouds began to scatter. All the darkness is growing serene, soothing.
The next day, Ilham women talk to Trinisha about their meager refugee allowance. She assures them of finding other sources to supplement their income. Trinisha organizes a meeting for all the refugees and explains that if they opt for Indian citizenship, they could get more benefits. “The aid that you’re getting isn’t adequate, as some of you told me. We can guide you through the naturalization process, if that’s what you want.” The ladies murmur among themselves. Farida stands up and sheepishly says that if they obtain Indian citizenship, they’d never get a chance to immigrate to America, Europe, or Australia.
* * *
Right opposite Ilham there is a food stall run by Afghan refugee men. The men and women do not talk to each other until the day the women could not wrap up their tent. The men stepped in to help. Since then, they help the women put up and wind up the tent.
“I have brought ten eggs, batter, sugar, and chocolates. Salma, can you make me a cake?” Rahman hands over the raw materials.
“Salma,” Farida whispers to Tahira, and then, after a pause, “Rahman. I smell something fishy.”
Tahira makes no comment.
“I have an instinct about these things,” Farida’s pouting lips flatten into a wry smile. A woman with dyed brown hair and white roots, her blemished skin and wrinkles around her eyes betray her young age.
“She is only thirty, after all. Her grandfather married her off to an old man in Kabul when she was barely fifteen,” Zohra says. Zohra, the oldest of them, has been living in Delhi for twelve years now. There is nothing left for death to devour—sunken eyes, wrinkled face, and sharp bones.
Tahira receives a phone call from Maryam. She tells Tahira that again a strange man with an awkward gait followed her on her way to the school and that she ran away to avoid confrontation. “Running away is not the solution.” Tahira says. “Next time look into his eyes and throw the chili powder on his face. He should be the one to run away.” Tahira thinks about the incident at night. She has a dream later in which she stabs a man with no face.
* * *
Four weeks pass. At five, Tahira gets up. She cannot wait to see Farzana. She reaches Indira Gandhi International Airport an hour before the flight lands. She hugs Farzana and cannot hold back her tears. Both sisters talk about their ailing parents and brother. It seems as if a decade has passed. Farzana remains unchanged—rosy cheeks and the same hourglass figure, her palms moist and cushy like a lychee. She wears a silk scarf around her head and plaid wool salwar with matching pointed shoes.
“Things are as they were,” Farzana says observing the narrow streets of Lajpat Nagar.
“Why can’t our parents find a bride for Khalid?” Tahira says.
Farzana clears her throat. “We didn’t tell you this, but when you left the country, your in-laws had Khalid beaten. He survived a brain injury but hasn’t worked since that incident. He finds it hard even to walk straight.”
Tahira places her hand on her mouth.
“Our parents went off to pilgrimage to Ali’s tomb in Mazar-i-Sharif. Nobody knew when they were back. I am a journalist and can expose them, so they haven’t tried to mess with me.” The driver helps the sisters move the baggage to the apartment. Tahira rings the doorbell twice.
“See who is here?” Tahira draws Kabir and Zia closer. Farzana hugs the children. They all sit on a mattress. Farzana pulls out woolen clothes she brings for everyone. Kabir and Zia remain silent, but Maryam and Karim’s enthusiasm is palpable, and they ask questions about their grandparents who they vaguely remember. Farzana brought Tahira’s favorite books of Rumi’s poetry. They chat over things which remain the same and things which have changed over the years. When the children leave for their respective schools, Farzana asks Tahira about marrying again.
“It’s difficult now.”
“Wouldn’t a partner make things easier?”
“But where is love?” Tahira says.
“I am sure it could develop with time.”
“It’s like when you are sailing on a ship along a beautiful coast; you admire the coast for its beauty. It has nothing to do with any desperate need of your own. But if your ship is wrecked and you swim towards the coast because it represents security against waves, then its beauty or ugliness becomes an unimportant matter.” Tahira unwraps a multicolored sweater.
“Don’t you think all love contains something of both kinds?” Farzana asks.
“Maybe. But finding a common ground is important.” Tahira drinks another cup of Afghani tea. She makes the same breakfast they made in Kabul: fried meat, bread, and sweet pudding. She mentions the places they could visit. Before her arrival she had looked up ticket prices and hours of admission, made a list of places to explore each day. She hasn’t had the time or money to explore much of Delhi herself and thinks a week with Farzana would provide her the opportunity.
“There’s NGMA of course,” she begins. “And Chandni Chowk, Paranthe Wali Gali. There are majestic mosques in the old city. I have been meaning to go for a while. And then there’s the Lotus Temple, if you’re interested. There are buses too which give city tours.”
“Yes,” Farzana says. She looks tired. “To be frank, all I want is to be with you.”
“Why don’t you shift here?” Tahira’s eyes sparkle.
“I am appearing for the final exam of the journalism course. And now the situation in Kabul is much better. The girls’ schools have reopened, and young women are going to the universities.” Farzana looks up at the ceiling fan making creaking noise. “A weekly magazine is published, by and for women. I interned there during my studies. I might get a job there.” Farzana is not built to live away from their parents, Tahira knows.
It’s a warm, sunny day. The trees along the streets have started to turn red-brown. The breeze smells of a mix of dust and petrol—a smell Tahira finds oddly pleasant. Tahira and Farzana spend the morning wandering in the Mughal Garden admiring the red stone and marble building of Humayun’s Tomb. They explore Old Delhi and visit Shahi Sunehri Masjid and the Red Fort, the marble chamber of private audience with its delicate pillars and arches. They linger much longer at the beautiful throne and carved ceiling and see it again as they stand before the dainty pearl mosque. When they arrive at Meena Bazaar, they overhear a tourist guide explain that Muslim royal women shopped for perfumes, fabrics, and gems in this place which was inside their own palace. They visit Diwan-i-Aam, where the king addressed the public grievances. There is pillared courtyard with a raised decorated platform for the king, and above it stands the famed peacock throne.
When the rain starts pouring out of nowhere, with minor drizzle first and then with all its might, they find shelter in the rental car. The driver takes them off to a nearby mall. Behind them, the Mughal architecture drifts out of sight in the rearview mirror of the rental car.
The mall with myriad shops and a multiplex offers a break from history. A live piano performance from an amateur artist and the smell of freshly baked food items are comforting. Tahira introduces Farzana to her favorite dish—momos—in the food court. Farzana reminds her of a similar dish in Afghan cuisine, but Tahira argues nothing could beat the thick-red-spicy sauce served in Delhi. Tahira takes her to Paranthe Wali Gali later in the evening, and they gorge on deep-fried aloo parathas and jalebis.
They sit in silence after the meal. Tahira does not discuss her struggles to pay rent and buy groceries, or the numerous questions she must answer about her origin and relationship status on a routine basis. She also hides details about Hussain and the recent incidents of the Afghan men following her and Maryam. Then Farzana clears her throat.
“Do you like it here?” Farzana asks.
“I do,” Tahira says. “It is what it is.” Tahira chuckles. “Cooking isn’t as much fun as teaching, but it’s the best I can do here.”
“Do you need other qualifications to teach?”
“Yes,” Tahira says. “And I enrolled in one of the distance learning programs but couldn’t complete it. Primary schools might consider my application. I have applied in a few schools.”
“As happy as I am to get rid of you, I am proud of your journey,” Farzana smiles.
“Maybe I am only emphasizing the good part of the story because I want you to move here. And hope that someday our brother and parents move here too,” Tahira looks straight into Farzana’s eyes. She is on the verge of breaking into tears, but a toddler distracts her. He is giggling and running around an artificial tree close to the mall entrance.
“Our father wouldn’t move out of Kabul. You know him. Mother won’t either. Khalid is better off with them. Maybe, when I start earning, I can save and come to Delhi frequently.”
On the way back home, both sisters go to the market and buy a bag of vegetable momos, Maryam and Zia’s favorite dish. She places them in a plastic bag, along with chocolate hazelnut cake and a pair of star-shaped earrings.
Farzana prepares to leave after a week. On the way to the airport, Tahira asks Farzana to kiss their mother on her behalf and send a picture of her toothless grin. Before parting, the sisters give each other an affectionate hug. Tahira takes a metro on her way back and sits behind the score of empty seats. Her tears keep flowing, relentless as the August rain.
* * *
When Tahira comes home from the Dastkar Bazaar, she figures she has half an hour to spare. She quickly goes into the kitchen and places potato wedges in the oven. Then she pulls out the matrimonial page from the last week’s newspaper. With an orange highlighter in hand, she searches for the Muslim section. Tahira puts down the newspaper column as she sees Karim enter with a lowered gaze. He sits next to Tahira.
“The call center closed down. We are not getting any money.” Karim drops his head on Tahira’s shoulder.
“We will find you another job. There are plenty of call centers out there.” Tahira brings a plate of golden-brown potato wedges.
The next day, Tahira brings Karim a mobile phone. Her parents sent money with Farzana which would help her deal with such unexpected expenses for a while. She asks Karim not to worry and watch television for a while.
When Tahira goes out to meet UNHCR officials, she wears a black scarf, a full-sleeve white shirt, and black trousers. Ilham has received a catering order for an event for foreign diplomats. They are going to serve three hundred fifty people in a five-star hotel. A newspaper reporter comes to interview Tahira at the refugee agency. While talking about Ilham’s progress, one of the officials asks her about her husband.
She can hardly think of a week that passes without someone, somewhere, enquiring: Are you married? Do you have children? Where do you come from? She has become quite skillful in her responses. She uses different ones depending on the occasion, her mood, and how long she wants the conversation to last.
If she sees a handsome man around, just to keep her options open, her response is:
“Yes, sort of,” with a soft yes and an accentuated sort of.
“Yes, but,” with an ambiguous yes and a clear but.
When she returns home, she sees Maryam writing in her diary. Tahira waits for her to say something as she begins making rotis. Outside, the evening is still warm. The park below is twinkling with occasional lights. The landlady is walking unperturbed by the barking dogs.
As soon as Tahira is done with cooking, Maryam whispers that the Afghan man followed her on the way to the school. This time, she says, she mustered courage to look him in the eye and continued walking. She took unexpected turns on the way. When after a while she sensed steps following her, she took out the packet of chili powder and opened it.
“When he touched my shoulder, I turned around and threw chili powder on his face. As soon as I realized that he was an old man about to ask me directions, I apologized and offered him my water bottle to wash his eyes.”
They both laugh together.
“Oh, my brave Maryam,” Tahira says. “Just be careful not to blind an innocent man next time.”
Maryam moves closer to the window to bask in the cool wind blowing outside; her eyes gleam. The gigantic mango trees outside blur. They stay that way for several minutes, washing plates and drying them, scrubbing inside of the sink, removing food particles from the drainer until the kitchen surface is as clear as polished light. Then, under the fan, they sit side by side like sailors on a deserted island. The moths continue to flutter around the streetlight, but the noise of flapping wings doesn’t reach them.
Kruti Brahmbhatt was educated in the U.S. and India and holds a PhD in Economics. Her work has appeared in the Forge Literary Magazine, Water~Stone Review, North Dakota Quarterly, and elsewhere. She has also received an honorable mention in Glimmer Train’s Short Story Award for New Writers. She was a 2014 Young India Fellow and lives in Ahmedabad.