SELECTED WORKS
by Bhupinder D Mahi
'MY SISTER'S DEATH'
by Bhupinder D Mahi
It's a party. The house is full. Her father's celebrating. He's completed a deal with the Saudis. It's taken a while and he's called his friends, all who've helped to put the deal together. It's mostly men. Some women, wives. It's okay, her father says, women should not be hidden. He's asked her to help serve his guests. Her mother's protested saying she's no longer a child, but he says this is a progressive family and he's going to practice what he preaches; he will not hide his women when his friends are around. All the windows in his house will always be open, he says. And anyway, he adds, he'll have her brother keep watch, make sure there's nothing to worry about. So she's helping, handing out the food and the soft drinks.
.............................
This side of the moon:
Is the party ended? She seems to be floating. There's just a blur. Fading into nothing. Whispers above her, around her. People breathing. Hard, harsh. The lines of a face. Is that her mother? Broken light flashes. There's a thud. Then a cry. A ripple of pain touches her. Her eyes open. A face above her. Bending down. Close. In its eyes she cannot see herself. Just black. Then she realises she had cried out, it's her pain, the pain's inside her, on her. It's everywhere, her pain. Again a thud. Again a pain. Then she remembers. A memory burns through the dark. She remembers being carried up the stairs. She remembers her brother hitting her, her father pinning her arms and behind them her mother, eyes blackened, shouting about broken pots. She remembers and the fear returns. Please, she wants to say, I don't want to die, but a knife flashes and punctures her throat. Her eyes open in surprise at the sound of her flesh being cut.
..........................................
By the light of a falling knife she sees her brother�
I seen her. I was watching. There's a big turnout. Pitaji's called a lot of people and they're all here. Some are okay, like, but most are fuckheads but Pitaji thinks they're useful. Life's like that. You need to mix with scum, he tells me, if you want to rise. I keep my eyes open. This is Pitaji's place. I see her looking at him, the bitch. Staring. One of Pitaji's business contacts. Go ways back. Came here on the same boat, according to Pitaji. Lived in the same house. Ate from the same plate. Giving him the eye she was. Fucking smiling she was as he took the meat. What's the fuck's goin on here, I say. Secret signs, she's giving him. I thought she'd learnt her lesson, but fuck, no, she still wants to play. And the mutha fucker, he should know better, he's married, like with three bitches calling him dad. But I know he still likes to play. Seen him at parties and like. Always on the pull. Fuck, so's all of us. All bright Casanovas. He can play, I'm not going to lock up his dick, but no fucking way was he playing in this house. Not with my family. He can fuck every colour of bitch in the street, but when he's here he hangs his fucking cap on the door. But it's her.
She's flashing him. She's got him in her lights. And the way they're playing I know this is not the first time. I follows her into the kitchen. She's pulling her chunni closer. I pull her round and slap her. Bitch, it's a bit late for that. I've seen you looking at that fuck, I says, and I seen him looking back. You keep your fucking face down or you're fucked. You hear? She nods. If that shit looks at you again, you move. She nods. But I fucking know she's not listening. So I slap her again. I'm not fucking around here, I tell her. I'll break more than your fucking legs this time. Respect, that's what I want. I've told my Pitaji I'll look after his honour. There's no way my sista's goin' be a slappa. I lift my fist and she backs away saying. I ain't done nothing. Keep it that way, I warn her. I know what Pitaji will have to say.
........................
By the light of a knife flash she sees her father...
I'm still the man I was when I first came here. All of us are, all of us here. I've kept myself intact, my family whole, my honour pure. All of us have, all of here. I know who I am, where I came from. I know where my feet are. I know the dust that covers my shoes. I do not look for other colours; mine fit me well. I look at my friends' sons, their sons' sons and I know they're lost. I see them in the street, these hybrids, dressed as foreigners, speaking a strange language, mixing with scum, picking women who have no honour. Our children are becoming strangers to us in this strange land. We were talking, a group of us, about why we came here. We came to make money, someone said, that's all, make it quick and go back home. But way things are we'll leave with nothing, this guy said. If we're not careful when we go we'll have lost everything, children, honour, everything, go back empty. The rest of us agree. We know this is true, we all know what's going on. We all keep our eyes open. Then I see my daughter across the room. They all see her. She's just come out of the kitchen. She looks pale, I think it's the light. They all see her. One of them says he's marrying his daughters as soon as he can find a man for them. These are dry times, he says, no faith. There's no shadow to keep us pure. No one cares about their roots anymore. They've sold themselves. He's still looking at my daughter. Whores and pimps everywhere, he then says. Fucking streets aren't safe for our women. Keep them in the house, he said, marry them young, get them used to the fist, that's the only way to guarantee honour. Have you seen the bitches selling themselves to every piece of shit who throws them a penny? Times are changing, my friend, he says, you need to keep your eyes open all the time. They could be anyone's. I tell him quiet. My daughter's close. I watch her coming, see her look sideways at him, smiling, and I see the bastard smiling too. Then she's there in front of me. Doesn't lift her eyes. I see her shaking. She knows I'm watching. Stands with the tray. She's trembling. I know there's trouble. Tell your bro to come here? I say. And I watch her go away.
.......................................
By the light of a knife she sees her mother�
Her brother comes to me and says, Ma, Pitaji's said we all need to talk........right now. All evening I knew there'd be trouble. Blood red I saw the moon. The time of our affliction. We are cursed by this moon. How its turns me to salt! I lie in bed, the moon open in my face, next to him. Only time I want his flesh. Welcome him into me, kill my flesh, silence its screaming. They say the same, all the women. Our men are there to sate the moon. But my daughter, she's just ending her childhood. She's my child, my little one. All evening I'd felt the moon rising in me. And as I watched her I'd felt it in her as well. She was carrying a woman's scent tonight. Bright. Burning. All night I watched her. The house was full, men I hadn't seen before. Any dog that can bark for me is welcome, my husband says. I'd told him to take care. But he's the head. Her brother comes to me and says Pitaji has made a decision. I knew then it was a blood moon and there'd be blood rising to deepen its cheek. (When we took her to the room she looked at me, said, Mama, help me. But I was tied, my hands were tied. I could do nothing. God have mercy on us.)
All night I'd seen her eyes flushed with our madness. I could smell her. How could the men ignore her? How can a dog restrain himself when the bitch is throwing her scent? That's our curse. There's no escape for us. But she'd tried. The last time she was fifteen. She had a group of friends, girls her age, girls we knew. They'd been skipping classes. Taking the train into the city. Changed their clothes in the train. Put on makeup. Had been smoking. We beat her. And she ran away. And then the telephone started ringing. Just spoke about her. She's a slut, the voice said, I've seen her. I know what she is, taking off her clothes for anyone. Her brother found her. Renting a room in a house that belonged to one of Pitaji's friends. They blamed me. She was my daughter, I should have taught her better, sewn her sin when they'd said. But I wanted to keep her whole. She was still my little girl.
Her brother comes to me and says, She's opened the window, Ma. All the world's seen into Pitaji's house. I asked him whether he was sure and he said look at her, look, can you see her shaking with her shame? The only thing is to cut out the shame, cut it before it spreads. It has to be pulled out from the root.
She's my shame. I brought her into this world. I can do nothing to help her. I have nowhere to run. I'm tied. I will hide my shame in my stomach. It will be buried with me. What can a mother do in this stony land? There's no shade from its wickedness. Everywhere we're exposed.
I looked. I saw her watching me and when I caught her eye I knew she knew what was coming.
Darkness.
Just past the moon.
They tied her hands and feet together, gagged her, carried her into her bedroom and threw her onto the bed. Each of them stabbed her seven times, first the brother, then the father and finally the mother. Behind them her uncle recited verses to purify their spirits.
They wrapped the body in a white sheet, took it into the back garden and pushed it into a metal bin. They then doused it with paraffin and set it alight. The flames lit their faces, lips moving as if in prayer.
Her name was Safi. Her birth certificate stated "Saffron" but she was always called Safi. She was sixteen.
� Bhupinder D Mahi
Reproduced with permission
'IT MATTERS'
by Bhupinder D Mahi
ADAM SHAVING HIS GENITALS
Summer.
Adam, looking forward to the beach and the pools, inspected his naked form in the long wardrobe mirror. Not just critical of his side profile, the way his belly globed, no, there was another matter he wanted to check; whenever he had an erection it seemed most of it was hidden by the inordinately, or so it seemed to him, thick tall overhang of a bush. He had measured his organ; fully engorged it was larger than the average, but seemed shorter with the hair. Perhaps he should trim it? Turned sideways he watched as he pushed the abundant curls away, down from the stem. Yes, now it could be seen at its best. He faced the mirror, still keeping his hands pressing down. Jeez! It looked even larger, starting its flute way, way down and rising up, rugged, the thick vein an elevator taking his eyes to the red summit, just peeping from under the stretched skin. Man, there was a sight, an Eiffel tower carved in flesh, curving, he noticed, slightly inwards, to the right. Not a flaw, an imperfection, rather, that made it perfect, gave it character. What woman could not be moved? What pussy would not be purring to wrap its lips around this succulent piece of art? He pulled the hair out to its full length. Definitely too long. You trimmed poodles, pruned roses and women cut theirs so why not he? All those women in the magazines had it neatly cut, shaped, enhancing the natural beauty; Nature could not be trusted to get things right by itself, not that unconscious mother, no matter how well intentioned, not when it came to true appreciation, evaluation; eyes and a mind were needed to place value on beauty, to heighten the gross. Having deflated his pride, he carefully cut the hairs to half their length. Appraised. Not satisfied he trimmed the hairs around the base down to the skin until looking down he could see where his manhood sprang from his torso. He paraded proud, provoking it to rise so he could assess his handiwork; it was a pillar, a solidity as inspiring as the red rocks dominating the Colorado landscape. Holy, something mystic about the way it flared, an aura of divinity surrounding the imperious, and by God, now steaming head.
That had been two days ago; two days during which he found that the truncated bush, sharpened, stiffened into a brush, pushed through his underpants to rub uncomfortably against his organ. He tried to ignore the prickling but it was too much. Scratching only heightened the discomfort. Trying to pinch the front of his pants away from his penis brought only curious and, in some instances, disgusted looks from his work mates, people passing him on the streets. Not wearing underpants slightly ameliorated the situation; but visiting the toilet he had caught his foreskin in the zip, had stood still, frozen, every movement igniting a lava-spill of pain, summoning up the courage to give the zip a quick, forceful tug downwards; the thought of the agony, the awful image of the possible injury had dismayed him, held his hands useless. No doubt he'd still be lost in contemplation had not a fellow worker slapped him on the back saying, Admiring yourself. Let�s have a looksee at what you�ve got. The slap had dislodged the skin, without him feeling a whisper of pain � only the cold air passing as it swung down had alerted him to the escape.
He had crept out back into his personal bunker, deflated, his pride wounded.
What could he do? He could swaddle it in cotton. He could take extended leave and stay indoors until it had grown back. After reflection he decided there was nothing else but to shave it completely. Baldness must be better than a full head. Of, course, he�d have to keep it smooth all the time, but he could deal with that.
He's in the bathroom, his bush generously lathered. Testing the razor on his thigh he finds it blunt. Then, inexplicably, while attempting to change the blades he sees that no matter how he tries he keeps holding the blade along its edges. Already one finger is cut, but to his surprise and consternation, not on the hand holding the blade.
He's horrified. There's pus coming from the wound, a yellow, bilious fluid, thick as cream.
He looks at the other hand and now the forefinger has a deep slash.
He tries to hold the blade flat, but bizarrely, and totally fascinated, every time his fingers land on the edges, the razor sinking deep into flesh. And the same evil pus is oozing from every cut. He tries to wipe it off, only succeeds in opening up new wounds, deeper, deeper till his fingers are useless, hands attached to his wrists like ripe fruits just burst. Then he notices his erection, magnificent like Mt Fuji, white headed steaming, mocking him with its still beauty.
An anger bursts from him, a flow of bitter lava.
You bastard! he shouts waving the razor at his penis, you�ve made me a cripple. Look at me. It�s your fault. I�m dead, finished. And you, his mouth opens impotently, words crowded in silence at the back of his throat, I�ll prune you down to size, you piece of shit!
He swings his hand down savagely, loses his footing as he feels the razor bite, and falls howling, banging his head on the edge of the sink on the way down.
Later lying on the floor, barely conscious, he sees his penis, in front of his face, regarding him serenely with its one condescending eye.
EVE: JUST PAST MIDNIGHT
He's trying to complete an essay, is in the lounge, laptop on his thighs, the TV�s on - just as background noise, he's not really taking in the images � something about a blind detective. Muted night noises filtered through the windows � solitary cars slithering past.
Can you help me? he hears her say. She was in the bathroom.
How? He replied.
I�m coming there, she said. I can�t do this by myself.
What?
I�m coming.
With her left arm lifted above her head she came, her right hand stretching, pinching the skin of her armpit out and up, her head twisting down to get a better, closer look.
I�ve got two spots. Two here, and two here, her nose pointed first at the left and then at the right arm pit.
That�s a good balance.
Help me squeeze them.
No.
Help me. It�s not aesthetic.
She sat down beside him. Shall I bring the light over? It�ll help you see.
I�m not doing it.
Just have a look. Tell me if you can see them.
Ok. He took off his glasses, placed them on the table.
She laughed as he leant in close. Your breath tickles.
Sit still.
Blind as a bat, she said. Can you see them? They�re at the top. Two black spots. She pulled the arm higher. There. Just there. There�s something in them.
They�re just trapped hairs.
Not the hairs. The black spots.
They�re just hairs under the skin.
Squeeze them.
There�ll be nothing.
Squeeze them, please.
It�s just hairs. He touched; here here and here.
Don�t worry about the hairs.
Just use your exfoliating sponge and they�ll be gone.
That won�t work on the spots. They need to be squeezed.
Try using the sponge.
Are you going to squeeze them?
Why do women inspect their armpits?
Because we like them clean.
Yours are clean.
I see spots.
Nothing there.
I see spots.
Nothing will come out.
Try.
Nothing.
Squeeze.
It'll just be blood. He uses his thumbnails. See, the skin is welting, reddening, there�s nothing.
She inspects: Harder. I know there is something there.
You want me to use a needle?
You�re not doing it properly.
He tries again. Nothing.
God, she says. I can squeeze any part of your body and guarantee something will come out.
Squeeze yourself.
I will. She does - he focuses back to the screen, the keyboard waiting patiently for his touch - and a moment later triumphantly holds up a speck. See, look, that�s what was in there. It�s not a hair, it�s dirt. Look!
He looks. On a fingertip a black grain.
See. She waved it in front of him. Smiling she leaves holding the precious extrusion back into the bathroom.
� Bhupinder D Mahi
Reproduced with permission
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ANYTHING BY SAMUEL BECKETT
PAGANINI'S BEAUTIFUL SCREECHING VIOLIN
