Basant

by Maryanne Khan

Sticky-fingered with flour-and-water paste, Imran worked feverishly to secure the cheap white paper to the sticks he had lashed together to sketch out the framework of his kite. It would be as broad as the wingspan of a vulture soaring over the roof of his house, and swift as a peregrine falcon and just as predatory. Deadly predatory.

His mother sat by the fire, furiously pummeling chappati dough, her mouth full of complaints that the roots of the morrow’s Basant festival lay in poisoned Hindu soil, blasphemous and alien to the purity of Islam.

Imran was tired of her sloped shoulders, her untidy hair, the latent rage that boiled beneath her skin. He wished she would stop pretending to defer to her husband, his father. In a fit of spite, Imran compared her to a bitter lemon with tough, leathery rind and sour flesh. To his irritation, she continued to moan, mentioning in addition that attending the nocturnal festivities would more likely than not strip his young sisters and all the girls of their modesty, and she would not stand for that! Imran bent his head over his work whilst his two little sisters played with a jar in which they had trapped a moth after it had come a-fluttering around the kerosene lamp.

‘I will not be wasting the money on a feast tomorrow,’ she said to her husband.

She always referred to the household finances as ‘the’ money, as it was her work as a seamstress that was responsible for every miserable bite that went into their mouths.

Imran’s father was no longer irritated by her simmering anger. What was he to say to her in his shame at having abdicated his position of breadwinner in the family? No, he would not complain, he deserved the mantle of shame that wrapped itself about him. A dilapidated patchwork blanket, it hung from his shoulders, cobbled together of both physical infirmities and infirmities of character. He was a weak man; he accepted it. If he had cast aside financial responsibility (through no direct fault of his own, as he assured himself) he could not abandon the habit of allowing her to defer to him. If he did, she would have no reason to stay, and where would she go?

Raana Bibirumbled like a bubbling cauldron stewing resentment, ‘People would be better off putting their efforts towards a sound footing in the ways of the true faith. The ways that the Prophet, may peace be upon Him, has decreed.’

When Baba continued to smoke untouched by her observations, she turned to matters domestic, mentioning that the roof was leaking and that their son should have more practical applications for his energies than making useless toys.

Imran’s hands shook, so nigh he was to finishing his kite that he drew the moment a little closer, crying, ‘Look Abu! Mine will be the biggest, no?’

To which his father did not respond as both knew that other families in the village showered down money for kites and parties like flowers at a wedding. This was something else that fuelled Raana Bibi’s antagonism. She railed against wanton largesse. She railed that hunger so lavishly assuaged during this one impious festival would return to claw at the door like a ravenous dog over the following days.

‘Bread and onions,’ she said. ‘One day of plenty—and then starvation. There is no sense in it.’ As though she considered that persevering in a relentless, constant state of semi-deprivation with never a moment’s respite were the sensible thing to do.

As it was.

‘Even in hunger,’ Babasaid, ‘we should find cause for gratitude. It is the solemn truth that the Prophet himself, may peace be upon Him, did not complain when he had no more to eat than stale bread and water.’ Having turned the matter back to mention of the Prophet, satisfied, he pressed on, ‘And sometimes he sustained himself on nought but water.’

Bibi broke off a small lump of raw dough, not looking at what she was doing, instead levelling an acid gaze at her husband. She began to slap the dough between her palms. The room rang with the slap, slap slap of the frustration and resignation with which she had seasoned the bread as surely as with salt.

In a far corner of the floor, Imran sealed the last flap over the structure of bamboo sticks he had patiently whittled to the slightness of a whisper. Satisfied that the paper was stretched tight, he knotted the string through the crossbar of the centre struts of the kite and hung it on a nail on the wall—high— beyond the reach of little fingers.

Bibi billowed the threadbare cloth over the floor, calling to Yasmina and Saleema to come eat. She set out a rush basket of steaming bread. Imran took the basket after his father and searched carefully for a piece with no burnt edges, which piqued his mother.

‘See what comes of waving extravagant festivals under his nose!’ she remonstrated. ‘Next he will be demanding chicken—and that it be tender!’ The little girls tittered as though she had made a joke, giggling under a corner of their shawls that they had raised to their lips to conceal their laughter.

Bibi placed a sullen pot of soupy lentils on the cloth into which Baba dipped his bread. He was wiser than his son and knew that even the mention of a feast concealed a sting in the tail. The slow disillusionment of years had furred his palate—that and the lingering sweetness of the bhang he smoked rather more these days—so that he tasted nothing that he put in his mouth. He chewed, eyes dreamy, distracted, like the donkey tethered to the ancient fig tree outside the door, a tree that had almost dried up and that fruited no more. Imran had wondered why they left it be, gnarled and twisted, leather-leaved and barren until he realised that cutting it down would require providing alternative shelter for the skinny little beast that lived beneath it.

Later that night, Imran lay on his cot, listening to the sputter and crack of the dying fire, staring at the ghostly white shape he discerned in the grey darkness like a shadow over the moon, a soft glow against the smoke-darkened walls. It would be him the one crying victory the following day, him shouting ‘Bo kata!’ as he cut down enemy kites from the rooftop terrace and it would be he who would hear the drums and trumpets celebrating his triumph. And it would be he, the victor, who would be invited to the feasts in the village.

Next morning, his mother, sullen and bristling, refused to make parathas for breakfast, staving off squandering ghee in anticipation of the lean times awaiting them like the bony beggar that she discerned already sitting on the stoop. In defiance, she sat at the Singer, feet pumping the treadle in a fulminous flurry of fabric and thread, sewing for the wife of the Sahib. A meagre beam of lacy light filtered through the small window with its iron grille, the only illumination in the small corner in which she worked.

Eager to plunge into the festival, Imran snatched down the kite. With nothing but milky tea and plain bread in his belly, he climbed the ladder reaching towards the cloud-feathered sky to the terrace on the roof.

In protest against the heathen festival, Bibi had neglected to sweep it, so the terrace lay under a dry flutter of dead leaves. The winter still clung to the mud brick parapet like green fur in damp corners and the floor was crisscrossed with the silver trails of snails. He stooped to pick up a snail shell, empty, but surprisingly translucent, glimmering, small as a pearl. He put it in his pocket, planning to give it to his younger sister, Yasmina, who collected such things—butterfly wings, seed pods, dead beetles—and who kept them in a little carved camphorwood pencil case that had once belonged to their dead grandfather.

The early morning still blushed the sky, the new growth on trees showing golden as the flowers on the fields of mustard plants coming into full spring bloom. All around, the festive music from radios and tape recorders filled the air and people dressed in yellow danced on rooftops surrounded by improvised bands singing the secular songs of which Bibi did not approve.

He had picked through his mother’s scrap-bag to find the length of yellow fabric that now hung at his neck like a real Basant scarf as he took up position on the rooftop, holding his kite at full stretch of the arm. It throbbed on the breath of the wind, tugging and struggling like a bird eager to take to wing.

‘Pecha!’ Sourav called from the neighbouring rooftop and the challenge was on.

From the corner of his eye, Imran ascertained that Sourav’s father had purchased him the largest kite at the bazaar, the one emblazoned with great crimson and saffron dragons. It had been much scrutinised by all the boys, who had stared at it, feet scuffing, eyes envious of who would fly it until the stall-owner had chased them away, certain that he smelled theft afoot. On the opposite rooftop, Sourav’s several uncles brandished a brass horn and pounded drums as the two opponents launched into the air.

The wind took his kite in one breath and Imran held the spool, playing out the kite string that sparkled with dried glue and crushed glass, slowly at first, then repeatedly pulling down on it until it was as tense as a bow before letting the kite have its head. He played out more string then pulled down, sideways, sharply, when it slackened and the kite dodged and wove dangerously close to that of Sourav.

He steered it so that it was poised, ready to strike and in the instant in which Sourav took his eyes away to say something to one of his uncles, Imran struck. With a great downward tug across his body he drove his kite into a steep sweeping lunge, the razor-sharp line at full stretch.

The kite with intertwined dragons was cut loose to cartwheel madly, spinning like a leaf on the stem to then plummet amongst the Chinar trees beside the house, where it lay still, its back broken.

Sourav’s mouth fell open as Imran’s home-made kite shook itself triumphantly like a cormorant drying its wings in the sunshine, turning this way and that, dancing on the end of its line, spinning, whirling.

Sourav shouted, ‘It’s null and void! It doesn’t count!’

Sourav’s father was yelling at his son to hurry to retrieve the fallen kite, so expensive it was.

Imran, flush with victory and with a broad grin of satisfaction on his face, turned away to seek another adversary.

He was engaged with a third combatant when a stone hit him squarely in the back of the head, a sharp crack that filled his eyes with tiny white sparks. He whirled around to see Sourav standing in the alley between their houses, holding his broken kite, face screwed up with malice.

In turning, however, Imran had lost control and his kite had swooped off of its own accord in a passing gust and when he spun around once more, it was to meet howls of indignation. His kite had struck the main power line to the cluster of village houses. The line had shorted, starving the criss-cross network of improvised wiring the villagers had rigged up to siphon power illegally from the grid.

‘Ahi! Allah!’ they screamed. ‘Stupid, foolish boy, look what you have done. Now there is nothing for it, the electricity company must be called.’

Then they were at the door of the house, pounding until Baba opened it to their screaming and Imran stood petrified amongst the drifting leaves on the terrace, staring down on their heads, the abandoned spool rolling forlorn towards the low parapet.

Let them come and get me, he thought miserably. He entertained the idea of drawing the ladder onto the roof and spending the rest of his life up there. It would be pleasant to sleep under the stars and maybe his sisters would put food in a basket and he could haul it up with a rope . . . There was such a basket near the fireplace to hold onions, but would Bibi give it up?

But when his Baba came outside and stood staring at the blank sky, face equally as blank, to listen to the protesting neighbours, staring at the sky again and finally calling him to descend, Imran came down.

The moment his feet touched the ground, neighbours shook fists in his face, accusing him of ruining their festival: no power to cook, no power to illuminate the night-time competitions—the highlight of the festival, no music. Not to mention the time it would require to disconnect the illegal network and conceal the wires only to have to spend an equal amount of time in reverse to hook it all up again.

One man threw the kite down before Imran like an indictment to then smash it repeatedly with his foot.

Imran cried, ‘None of this is it’s fault and it’s not my fault either!’

‘How is it not your fault?’ they said, incredulous. ‘This is your kite, there is no questioning that! It is a true fact.’

‘I’ll show you,’ Imran said.

He clambered back up the ladder and fell to his knees where he had been standing, hands scrabbling urgently on the pavement amongst the leaves until he found the stone. He cradled it in his hands as though it were a jewel before dropping it into his pocket.

But the men were not convinced when he held it out, triumphantly, on the palm of his hand as though it were stained with his very own fresh red blood and they simply said, ‘That is no proof.’

‘But I was winning!’ Imran said in his own defence, meaning that he had demonstrated consummate skill with his kite and how could it be that he should have ever intentionally committed such a grave error of judgement? He turned to his father, who stood like a man befuddled and the man he was—addled with hash, eyes swimming in his head, fingers twitching by his side in agitation.

‘I told him not to fly the kite,’ Baba said as Imran’s mouth went dry. ‘I forbade him,’ his father went on. ‘He shall have a good beating tonight.’

Satisfied, the neighbours turned to leave and Imran stared at Baba who could not look at him. Baba was swallowing, his leathery throat visibly contracting, the sinews standing out either side of his neck as he thrust his chin forward, stubborn.

Then Imran was running. Down the lanes and alleyways to the jeers of the villagers and the mocking laughter of groups of children clustered on rooftops or running wild in the street, chasing the kites that had retaken to the air, regardless. He kept running until he reached the spring where the village girls drew water in the evening and he sat at the verge where the tall grass grew and where they did not venture. He sat on, hearing stalk and seed-head whispering, smelling the earthy smell of moss as the first joyous day of spring fell dull as a stone into the pond.

He lingered as the day swelled then shrank, a bud caught in a late frost as the final dying breath of winter tempted a slight chill to venture down from the mountains into the valley. Shivering, he wondered how he might go home.

He remembered the snail shell for Yasmina.

His fingers felt in his pocket as he thought, if I return with a gift for my littlest sister, surely I cannot be punished? Surely I can’t.

Only now there was no shell in his pocket, nothing but tiny fragments like shaved opalescent glass that clung to his fingertips, and he thought, O but I was winning.