Love Across Borders (12 page)

She held my hand tightly and nodded.

Later Lela and Ratu came in and joined us.
Kavita invited us to visit her in Mumbai. Since then I spend time
in Mumbai, a city which reminds both of us of Karachi across the
border—where our story started so many decades ago.

∞

ABOUT ZAFFAR JUNEJO

Zaffar Junejo is an author, translator,
editor and publisher. He did his masters in science [computer
technology] from the University of Sindh, Jamshoro/Hyderabad but
left to pursue a career in the volunteer sector. He has translated
25 books into Sindhi for young readers. Along with his wife, he
manages ‘Phoenix Books’ a publication house for children.
Occasionally, he also writes for Newsline—a Karachi based monthly
magazine. His contributions cover themes of social change, culture
and literature.

Zaffar works at the Thardeep Rural
Development Program, an NGO which strives to bring about changes in
the lives of the dwellers of the Thar Desert—a Pakistani part of a
desert that spans both countries—India and Pakistan. He also
teaches and conducts workshop at national and regional levels.

He lives in Hyderad, Sindh
along with his wife Rozina and three children—Elsa, Maghana and
Sudharath. He can be reached at:
[email protected]

The Old Willow

ADIANA RAY

Brattle Street was deserted even though it was
just seven in the evening. Rocky turned his collar up against the
sharp December cold as he made his way down Massachusetts Avenue to
the welcoming beacon of Café Crema. A blast of hot air hit him in
the face as he walked in, and the savory smell of pizza made him
realize how hungry he was.

“Hi, how can I help you?” asked a disinterested
girl behind the counter, not even bothering to look up from her
contemplation of the chipped red nail polish on her nails. Rocky
grimaced inwardly to himself - his charm was obviously wasted
here.

As he walked to a table with his tuna-melt on
rye and cappuccino, he couldn’t help empathizing with her though.
Working on the twenty-sixth of December, when everybody was at home
with their families; must suck big time. Even Crema was pretty
empty and that was unusual to say the least.

“Hi, do you mind if I join you?”

Rocky glanced up at the short, stocky guy
standing there, bundled up as if he were catching the ferry to
Alaska. A maroon Harvard sweatshirt was just visible below his
coat. The familiar accent caught his ear.

“Sure,” he moved his stuff to one side.

“Thanks.” The guy extended his hand, a warm
smile on his face. “Hi, I’m Imran.”

Rocky shook the proffered hand as Imran sat
down.

“Rocky. Where are you from?” Rocky’s tone was
reserved. Usually it irritated him when
desis
just assumed
an instantaneous connection and latched on. On the other hand he
was feeling a bit lonely too.
Holiday blues
he thought wryly
to himself.

“I’m from Karachi, first long holiday alone and
I can’t believe how cold and depressing it can be.”

“Yup, everybody just takes off. What I wouldn’t
give to be able to take a walk down Marine Drive today,” said
Rocky, a nostalgic expression on his face.

“You live in Mumbai?” Imran was excited. “Have
you seen any film stars? Have you seen Aamir Khan? That guy is
amazing; loved his
Ghajni
.”

Rocky couldn’t stop his short burst of laughter.
“Why does everybody assume that just because someone lives in
Mumbai they are always bumping into film stars? As a matter of fact
haven’t seen a single one, not one, in my eighteen years of living
there.” He leaned back in his chair a slight smirk on his face.

Imran’s excitement abated a little at Rocky’s
mocking tone. “Well if I lived in Mumbai, I would have definitely
gone to see Aamir Khan,” Imran continued after a minute. “He’s
really good, though sometimes I think a lot of it is media hype.
But, I am a fan, a big fan,” he reiterated again, in case Rocky
hadn’t gotten the idea the first time around.

“Media hype,” sputtered Rocky his chair hitting
the ground with a thud. “What do you mean by that?” He couldn’t
believe his ears.

“It’s the well-oiled Bollywood machine,
janaab
. All Aamir has to do is to announce that he’s
launching a new movie and it’s certain to be a blockbuster,”
alleged Imran matter-of-factly. “Now we have a fabulous director
called Shoaib Mansoor. That guy makes great movies, but who’s ever
heard of Lollywood?”

“Lollywood? What on earth is that?” asked Rocky,
confusion written all over his face.

“Exactly,” said Imran smugly, his fingers
beating a tattoo on the table. “You don’t even know that the film
industry in Lahore is called Lollywood. Proves my point.”

“What point? That Bollywood is just marketing
hype?” Rocky snapped back. “Aamir is talented, works damn hard, and
gets the pulse right - his work speaks for him. Next you’ll say
that Sania Mirza should start playing for Pakistan.” This guy was
really beginning to irritate him.

“Well…she has married a Pakistani,” Imran shot
back, unfazed.

“Has she become one?” Rocky leaned forward,
steel in his voice.

“As a matter of fact, we don’t want her to.
What’s her ranking anyway? Not among the top ten is she?” Imran was
becoming aggressive as well. “And in any case,” he continued, “we
Pakistanis play squash.” Casually, yet deliberately he sat up
straight and put both his hands on the table between them. If Rocky
wanted a fight he would get it.

“Dude it’s been ages since you had Jansher Khan
up there,” Rocky said dismissively, “You haven’t had a quality
player in what - fifteen years?”

“That’s what you think,” gritted Imran through
his teeth, leaning forward, his face inches away from Rocky.

“Hey guys, what’s up?” came a friendly voice
with an unmistakable twang.

Rocky and Imran broke their angry gaze to look
up at the tall, gangly figure standing near their table.

“You two look pretty intense, all good?”

Rocky ran his fingers through his hair and
leaned back in his chair.

“Yeah Kevin, we’re good. Hey, how come you’re
here? I thought you were supposed to go home.”

“I was,” Kevin replied with a mischievous grin,
“but I didn’t want to miss the big play-off tomorrow. Told the
parents I had some pending coursework.”

Imran looked up puzzled. “What play-off?”

Now it was Kevin’s turn to look mystified.
“Hockey…the Bruins…big match against the Redwings tomorrow,” he
emphasized slowly for Imran’s benefit.
How could somebody not
know that
?

“Hockey? You watch hockey?” Imran was confused.
He’d never known anyone in the US to play hockey.

“Ice hockey,” Rocky clarified for his South
Asian rival.

Imran snorted. “You mean the game where all they
do is push each other around?”

Kevin’s eyebrows went up. “Push each other
around? Hey! It’s a tough game, it requires skill and…”

Rocky put up a hand to stop his friend. “Oh No!
No! No! There’s no skill needed to play ice hockey. You want skill,
watch cricket. Look at Dhoni’s knock in the Tri-Series against Sri
Lanka.”

Imran nodded, talking across to Kevin. “Yeah!
Can you imagine—fifteen runs in the last over? That guy is a law
unto himself. Now that is a real sport.”

A charged-up Rocky agreed. “What about Afridi
playing against the West Indies? He was like a one-man team. Seven
wickets in the ODI, and then he makes forty-six off twenty-seven
balls in the T20. Total class.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Kevin sat
down heavily on an empty chair between the two
desis,
bewilderment written all over his face.

“Cricket is a game of finesse, skill and stamina
- hockey’s a pub brawl.”

“And all over in, what, ninety minutes?”

“Exactly. Ask one of those players to stick it
out over five days…”

“Or, even five hours!”

“Whoa.” Kevin put his hands up to stem the tidal
wave of derision coming from the others. “Seriously, what’s up with
you two?”

“Hey! You know what; I have some great
recordings of old matches. Want to come over and watch them?” Rocky
ignored Kevin.

Imran’s eyes lit up. “Sounds good, man.”

They grabbed their coats and got up.

A stupefied Kevin watched them leave together as
if they were best friends. As they headed towards the door, he
heard their last exchange before they left the café.

“So who’s this director you mentioned?”

“No idea. I was quoting a magazine article.”

“We’re a pair of morons; I’ve never watched an
Aamir Khan movie myself.”

Their laughter bounced off the walls.

∞

ABOUT ADIANA RAY

Adiana Ray believes in the Zen tenet ‘each state has
a 1000 truths’. Every person brings their own unique experiences to
a situation, which makes them see things differently and interpret
it in their own way.

This is what inspires her to write, trying to see
each relationship in a different way, and always having a new story
to tell. When she writes, her story could be a fantasy, but will be
a believable one that could happen to anyone of us and her focus,
above all, is to entertain the reader.

***

Rapid Fall
by Adiana Ray

A story that begins with the rapids of the
Ganga and has as many twists and turns as the river.

Available on www.indireads.com

Remnants of a Rainy Day

MAMUN M. ADIL

I still have the umbrella, even though I don’t
think I have ever used it.

I have had it for more than a decade now, and
even though it is tattered and torn, something prevents me from
throwing it out. Like a talisman, I let it hang by the entrance of
my apartment.

Sometimes, an unusually keen observer—usually a
woman I hope never to see again—spots it, and exclaims in a
pretentious manner, perhaps as a final act of seduction: “My, what
an interesting looking thing…”

I choose to ignore such trivial comments, and
let these irrelevant women out of the door, and try to forget the
fact that I have spent a night, or a few hours, with them, hoping
that they forget too. Most of the time, though, I don’t really care
if they do or not. I have other more pressing matters to deal with,
you see.

But after they leave, I realize that the
emptiness I am constantly trying to overcome, to fill, has never
really left. And when I look at the umbrella, I am reminded that in
all honesty, things really haven’t changed. Although the present is
somewhat bearable, it is tomorrow that I am still afraid of.

But enough of my pseudo-intellectual conundrums.
I am anxious to relive the once glorious past that was, literally,
in another country. The center of the world—New York City—in the
fabulous US of A. The city where I lived for most of my adult life,
where outwardly I led a life that many envied, a so-called
‘successful’ life with a coveted apartment in Manhattan, a swanky
car and a happening job in IT.

Oddly enough though, despite all its glory, I
was sick of NYC. It wasn’t just September 11, it was everything. I
was tired of everything… and everyone. Life had become monotonous
and uninspiring; it had become a negative sort of affair, filled
with the same people who talked about the same things at the same
places over the same drinks.

And the celestial city, which I called home, and
loved more than life itself was beginning to gnaw rabidly at my
insides, making me even more cynical. I just wanted to run
away.

But instead of just thinking about escaping, I
actually decided to leave. I decided to end a life. Mine. My life
in New York. I decided to move. Far, far away. Where there would be
no more reminders of the past, where the shadows of yesterday would
not brim into today, where I could start anew, forget the mistakes
I made, and attempt to take control of my life instead of being a
mere spectator.

Surprisingly, ending a life wasn’t as difficult
as I had thought. Perhaps death isn’t as difficult as you’d
imagine, and perhaps it is better to end it by yourself, rather
than having death thrust upon you. Of course, there was the matter
of fond farewells to deal with. Saying goodbye wasn’t hard I
realized—all you had to do was follow some fake hugs and kisses
with comments such as, “We’ll stay in touch,” the insincere, “Of
course I will come back…” and even, “I’ll always love you.”

The most difficult aspect of ending my life was
getting rid of the all the things I had accumulated in the process
of staying true to the good old materialistic American way of life.
Being computer savvy—hey, I was an IT yuppie after all—I took
pictures of my many belongings and placed them on Craig’s list in
order to sell them.

Within a week, most of the possessions I had
accumulated, each of which I had bought with careful thought and
consideration, was sold. Gone. Almost as if they had never existed.
Or been part of my life. On the upside, I managed to raise a decent
amount of cash. Only the smaller television, and some knick-knacks
remained.

That evening, it was a Friday I think, the phone
rang as I was about to hit the shower. I instantly figured it
wasn’t anyone I knew by the thick, Indian accent, one that stressed
on the T’s and D’s and lacked the V’s. (“Do you hawe a telewision
for sale?”)

I made an appointment for 7pm that same evening
(I had a drinks thing at 8), explained the directions to my house,
and figured I had a deal.

Seven-thirty and no one in sight.
Damn
Indians, I thought. Never on time. That’s why South Asians have
such a bad name—we can’t ever be punctual.
I peered outside the
window, as if willing the man in question to appear
instantaneously.