can tell, is in the other room, listening hard. Knowing it’s Khalid by the way he kicks off his sandals before he heads towards them with hesitant steps.
Looking round at the sea of questioning faces, Khalid thinks that the whole neighborhood seems to have crammed itself into the living room. There’s barely space on the small tables for another bowl of sugar cubes or cup of half-drunk coffee. He suddenly has no idea where to start. All at once, hundreds of inquiring voices fire questions at him in Urdu and Punjabi, neighbors and distant relatives crowding round him. The aunties wring their hands, sobbing. Mum stands in the corner, wailing. Gul and Aadab, pale and shaken, are close to screaming.
“I dunno where Dad is,” Khalid says when everyone eventually falls silent. He goes over the chain of events as quickly as possible, not bothering to mention the demonstration and the hordes of angry men he’d come across.
The moment Khalid finishes, leaving people none the wiser, everyone begins sounding off with their own ideas and gesturing to heaven for help. A stream of desperate prayers begins to flow from their downturned mouths. No one notices Khalid slip away to grab a glass of water, wash his dusty face and hands and flop on the kitchen floor. At last, he gets to sit on his own in a state of total disbelief at his useless, wasted search.
He is tired out of his mind, head spinning from too many hours without rest. The wooden ceiling fan seems to loom over him as he builds a nest of red cushions on the floor, their gold tassels swinging as he lies down. Soon falling under the gentle hypnosis of the fan’s whirring and faint clicks, he enjoys a moment’s peace until people begin coming and going, stepping over him. Clattering cups, brewing coffee, whispering, trying not to be noisy, even though they can see he’s not asleep.
In the end their constant interruptions force Khalid to get up again. He pads back to the living room, where Gul and Aadab stare from one sad face to another, wondering if anyone will notice if they eat the rest of the sugar cubes in the green glass bowl. Gul reaches to grab a handful and pass some to Aadab. Both try hard to enjoy the cloying sweetness while pretending not to be eating anything and, along with Khalid, gaze sadly at Mum. Fatima and Roshan stand with their backs to them at the window, looking out. Aunt Rehana listens blank-faced to a neighbor who’s brought a pot of honey and some walnuts to cheer them up.
Everyone is in the same state of lonely grief, only half here in this room, their minds overloaded with stories they’ve read in the papers about people who’ve gone missing and are later found dead from bomb blasts, accidents, murders. It’s easy to think the worst here.
Later, after a few hours tossing and turning in bed, Khalid gets up. He moves quickly, pulling on his jeans, hurrying to hear what’s happened. Peeping into the living room, he sees the same faces, feels the same hopelessness, and steps back. Rushing instead to the computer cupboard, where he half expects an e-mail from someone, anyone, who might be able to tell him what’s happened to Dad.
He opens the door and is amazed to find Abdullah on the computer. “What are you doing here?”
“What do you mean?” Abdullah clicks on the corner of the page he’s looking at so it disappears. Quickly turns to face Khalid with a calm, unsurprised smile.
“That’s our computer,” Khalid stutters.
“I have permission from the family to use this, but I have finished with it now so you may continue your game,” Abdullah says in his annoying formal English and scrapes the chair back.
The thought flashes through Khalid’s mind that he’s never told him about Tariq’s game, but then anyone could see what he’s been doing online because he didn’t log off the last time he used the computer. From now on, he’ll log off each time and shut it down properly.
“Don’t worry. I am not interested in what
Looking round at the sea of questioning faces, Khalid thinks that the whole neighborhood seems to have crammed itself into the living room. There’s barely space on the small tables for another bowl of sugar cubes or cup of half-drunk coffee. He suddenly has no idea where to start. All at once, hundreds of inquiring voices fire questions at him in Urdu and Punjabi, neighbors and distant relatives crowding round him. The aunties wring their hands, sobbing. Mum stands in the corner, wailing. Gul and Aadab, pale and shaken, are close to screaming.
“I dunno where Dad is,” Khalid says when everyone eventually falls silent. He goes over the chain of events as quickly as possible, not bothering to mention the demonstration and the hordes of angry men he’d come across.
The moment Khalid finishes, leaving people none the wiser, everyone begins sounding off with their own ideas and gesturing to heaven for help. A stream of desperate prayers begins to flow from their downturned mouths. No one notices Khalid slip away to grab a glass of water, wash his dusty face and hands and flop on the kitchen floor. At last, he gets to sit on his own in a state of total disbelief at his useless, wasted search.
He is tired out of his mind, head spinning from too many hours without rest. The wooden ceiling fan seems to loom over him as he builds a nest of red cushions on the floor, their gold tassels swinging as he lies down. Soon falling under the gentle hypnosis of the fan’s whirring and faint clicks, he enjoys a moment’s peace until people begin coming and going, stepping over him. Clattering cups, brewing coffee, whispering, trying not to be noisy, even though they can see he’s not asleep.
In the end their constant interruptions force Khalid to get up again. He pads back to the living room, where Gul and Aadab stare from one sad face to another, wondering if anyone will notice if they eat the rest of the sugar cubes in the green glass bowl. Gul reaches to grab a handful and pass some to Aadab. Both try hard to enjoy the cloying sweetness while pretending not to be eating anything and, along with Khalid, gaze sadly at Mum. Fatima and Roshan stand with their backs to them at the window, looking out. Aunt Rehana listens blank-faced to a neighbor who’s brought a pot of honey and some walnuts to cheer them up.
Everyone is in the same state of lonely grief, only half here in this room, their minds overloaded with stories they’ve read in the papers about people who’ve gone missing and are later found dead from bomb blasts, accidents, murders. It’s easy to think the worst here.
Later, after a few hours tossing and turning in bed, Khalid gets up. He moves quickly, pulling on his jeans, hurrying to hear what’s happened. Peeping into the living room, he sees the same faces, feels the same hopelessness, and steps back. Rushing instead to the computer cupboard, where he half expects an e-mail from someone, anyone, who might be able to tell him what’s happened to Dad.
He opens the door and is amazed to find Abdullah on the computer. “What are you doing here?”
“What do you mean?” Abdullah clicks on the corner of the page he’s looking at so it disappears. Quickly turns to face Khalid with a calm, unsurprised smile.
“That’s our computer,” Khalid stutters.
“I have permission from the family to use this, but I have finished with it now so you may continue your game,” Abdullah says in his annoying formal English and scrapes the chair back.
The thought flashes through Khalid’s mind that he’s never told him about Tariq’s game, but then anyone could see what he’s been doing online because he didn’t log off the last time he used the computer. From now on, he’ll log off each time and shut it down properly.
“Don’t worry. I am not interested in what
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