Read Online Kartography by Kamila Shamsie - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kamila Shamsie
Tags: Itzy, kickass.to
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Karim and I came along and proved justification enough, but I was suddenly too drowsy to speak. I pulled Karimâs pillow slightly closer to me and put my head down, grateful for being able to sleep spine to spine with Karim as I had done in the days when cameras in the hands of our parents formed the only memories we were ever to have of those earliest gestures of intimacy. Why grateful? Because sometimes you know youâre standing on a cusp, and you know that in knowing it youâve gone past the cusp over to the other side, or at least almost entirely so, entirely except for one toe that still hangs on to childhood; one toe or one finger or one shoulder blade curving back to meet another shoulder blade which curves forward to meet yours in a reminder that, if you had wings, this, right here, is where they would sprout.
Can angels lie spine to spine?
If not, how they must envy us humans.
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. . .
1970â71
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He watched the donkey kicking up red-brown earth between the cottonfields, the fury of its hoofs most likely an expression of disdain for the laughing, twittering creatures behind it, but no matter how fast it ran, spraying wet mud on the cotton-pickers, it could not outpace the cart attached to it, the laughter and shrieks getting louder and more high-pitched as the animal gathered speed. Ears laid flat against its skull, and mouth foaming. Such a fine line between laughter and braying.
Ali clicked his tongue, and turned away. It was ignoble to think of oneâs friends in that manner. Ignoble. Zafar would laugh if he heard him use the word. And Maheen would laugh, too, because these days Zafarâs laughter made Maheen laugh, no matter what the cause. He stared gloomily down at the bruise on his thumb. Purple-yellow smudge beneath his nail.
When he looked up again Asif was emerging from the kinoo orchards and walking towards the dunes, the farm manager by his side gesticulating wildly. Asif barely seemed to notice the man as he took a long drag on his cigarette and surveyed his property from behind dark glasses with an air of satisfaction. Who would have thought Asif Marx of Oxford would turn into quite so contented a landowner within three years of returning home? Men who worked on the farm stepped off the path as he approached, their feet sinking in the wet soil of the cottonfields, eyes cast down. Ali wondered if New Yearâs Eve meant anything to them.
He followed Asifâs progress through the field and to the sand dunes, where the old nomad woman raised her arms in greeting at his approach and called out to him in a dialect Ali couldnât understand. But Asif took off his glasses and called back to her, and the nomad woman put her hand on her broad hips and laughed. Ali knew that Asif was going to tell her that, yes, it was all right for her tribe to stay on the dune which belonged to him by law and belonged to her tribe by the laws of tradition. For longer than anyone knew, Asif had told him the night before, the nomad tribe had made this dune part of their migratory patterns. And now some of them wanted to build mud huts and settle, but the villagers and the farm hands considered them untouchables. To tell them that Islam had no concept of untouchables would have been futile, Asif insisted. So instead he had chosen compromise: the nomads could stay as long as they drank water from their own wells, and did not mix with the villagers.
How many walls can one nation erect and sustain, Ali wondered. Is it possible to circumnavigate one wall without crashing into another? He squinted up at the sun, and pressed his thumbnail to test the level of pain.
Â
Panes of glass reflected blinding sunlight, but Maheen knew there were faces pressed against the windows of the house, watching Zafar following her into the back garden, hoping for an indiscretion that could enliven coffee parties in its retelling.
âHey, gorgeous.â Zafar caught the pulloo of her
Can angels lie spine to spine?
If not, how they must envy us humans.
Â
Â
Â
Â
. . .
1970â71
Â
He watched the donkey kicking up red-brown earth between the cottonfields, the fury of its hoofs most likely an expression of disdain for the laughing, twittering creatures behind it, but no matter how fast it ran, spraying wet mud on the cotton-pickers, it could not outpace the cart attached to it, the laughter and shrieks getting louder and more high-pitched as the animal gathered speed. Ears laid flat against its skull, and mouth foaming. Such a fine line between laughter and braying.
Ali clicked his tongue, and turned away. It was ignoble to think of oneâs friends in that manner. Ignoble. Zafar would laugh if he heard him use the word. And Maheen would laugh, too, because these days Zafarâs laughter made Maheen laugh, no matter what the cause. He stared gloomily down at the bruise on his thumb. Purple-yellow smudge beneath his nail.
When he looked up again Asif was emerging from the kinoo orchards and walking towards the dunes, the farm manager by his side gesticulating wildly. Asif barely seemed to notice the man as he took a long drag on his cigarette and surveyed his property from behind dark glasses with an air of satisfaction. Who would have thought Asif Marx of Oxford would turn into quite so contented a landowner within three years of returning home? Men who worked on the farm stepped off the path as he approached, their feet sinking in the wet soil of the cottonfields, eyes cast down. Ali wondered if New Yearâs Eve meant anything to them.
He followed Asifâs progress through the field and to the sand dunes, where the old nomad woman raised her arms in greeting at his approach and called out to him in a dialect Ali couldnât understand. But Asif took off his glasses and called back to her, and the nomad woman put her hand on her broad hips and laughed. Ali knew that Asif was going to tell her that, yes, it was all right for her tribe to stay on the dune which belonged to him by law and belonged to her tribe by the laws of tradition. For longer than anyone knew, Asif had told him the night before, the nomad tribe had made this dune part of their migratory patterns. And now some of them wanted to build mud huts and settle, but the villagers and the farm hands considered them untouchables. To tell them that Islam had no concept of untouchables would have been futile, Asif insisted. So instead he had chosen compromise: the nomads could stay as long as they drank water from their own wells, and did not mix with the villagers.
How many walls can one nation erect and sustain, Ali wondered. Is it possible to circumnavigate one wall without crashing into another? He squinted up at the sun, and pressed his thumbnail to test the level of pain.
Â
Panes of glass reflected blinding sunlight, but Maheen knew there were faces pressed against the windows of the house, watching Zafar following her into the back garden, hoping for an indiscretion that could enliven coffee parties in its retelling.
âHey, gorgeous.â Zafar caught the pulloo of her
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