And the World Changed (52 page)

Where had she hidden them? Where had she put them? Baji wanted to know.

Kaakee wanted to answer but the pain in her chest was so distracting. Where, where, where? Nowhere, she wanted to say, nowhere. But she couldn't. And as she looked at Baji, still waiting, she saw how things might be different, more than just a series of sounds, of claps and thwacks and rote movements that made up her life. Kaakee thought of Aalia, her friend. She thought of how she might change things. At last, at last, terrifying as it was. When Baji asked again, where and why, Kaakee looked at her and said nothing at all.

Kaakee approached the charpoy where her mother sat with Hameeda. Kaakee's mother puffed at a hookah, she didn't look up as Kaakee sat down with them.

“Are you all right, Kaakee?” Hameeda asked.

Kaakee nodded. She didn't know what to say.

“Baji's been good about things. They won't call the police,” her mother said.

Kaakee felt tears in her eyes. She swallowed, blinking them back.

“Your
chacha's
found somewhere for you to go, in Cantt. It'll be better, you might even make a match there.”

Kaakee felt cold right through to her insides. She wanted to sit by her mother and put her head on her mother's shoulder. She wanted to say something, to explain. But she couldn't. There was no way to explain.

Neither of them asked Kaakee what had happened, it didn't matter. They knew that it was only what Baji and Aalia thought had happened that mattered; the
kothi-wallahs
' conclusion meant there was no need for further investigation, whatever the truth, whatever the logic. There was nothing more to say. Kaakee got
up and walked into the darkness.

She went around slowly to the side of the house and sat down on the steps outside the bathroom door. When she washed clothes in the bathroom she would open this door and look out beyond the steps where the soft light of the sun shone on the plants, on the old Suzuki, through the lattice work on Khawar's balcony. In and out of the ironwork the sunshine weaved, sloping down, extending upward, it went everywhere, freely, wantonly. She imagined it now as she sat in the darkness. She thought of the house that she would be going to. It was far from here. Aalia would never have to see her again. Kaakee had ended something that she had known all her life. She felt empty, drained, worse than she felt most days.

Kaakee tucked her legs beneath her and held them—and as she did, her hand felt something. She had forgotten all about it. She ran her hand up against the scar on her calf. Smooth and shiny, the shape of an incomplete 8, it stood raised on her skin, eager to be noticed, to be felt. Aalia had a scar too, from her appendectomy; she said she'd have it forever. Kaakee touched it again, remembering the fall from Aalia's bicycle as her fingers grazed the slippery mark. She had never shown it to Aalia or told her about it; Kaakee had taken the bicycle without asking.

That night, the night she took the bicycle, a
rishta
had come for Kaakee. She had waited in the bedroom as her mother and Hameeda met the scrawny young man and his parents. They didn't bother calling her out. Someone had told them the boy was an addict but it was too late to cancel the meeting. He said nothing as his mother babbled on. Kaakee emerged as the family left. She noted her mother's silence and gently stroked her mother's back. It didn't matter, she comforted her as she patted her mother's arm. Kaakee escaped outside. Another time she would have gone into the
kothi
and told Aalia about it, but they didn't talk like that any more.

She had wandered into the darkness around the house and sat on the bonnet of the Suzuki. There on the side was Aalia's
bicycle. She looked at it, bent upon itself as though it was trying to curl up and sleep after a long day. Over the years she had watched Aalia become an expert cyclist—one hand, no hands, arms folded. Kaakee looked at the bicycle; suddenly she longed to ride it more than anything else. She looked up at the house, the television was on, they were still up but watching. She straightened out the bicycle and hopped on to the seat. She cycled up to the gate, unsteady. Back to the Suzuki, then again to the gate. With each trip, the ride got smoother. Kaakee started to cycle a little faster and as she did, she felt a breeze against her face, cooling her under her arms, her sticky back. Faster, faster she went and then like Aalia, she stood up on the pedals. She wished Aalia could see her. Suddenly, she felt her hair come loose from the
joora
she had tied, it took her by surprise and made her laugh, just to herself—her hair was flying behind her and the breeze felt stronger than ever. She looked down at the cobbled path, the plants, the black earth in the beds—it all seemed so far away, the view from here was lovely. But so high, so exciting. She felt like she was flying.

Now as she sat on the step, Kaakee ran her hand over the scar again. She would have this forever. I never showed you, she thought, you never knew. Kaakee remembered the breeze in her hair, just like flying.

It was like silk under her fingers. I wish you had seen it, she thought.

AND THEN THE WORLD CHANGED

Sabyn Javeri-Jillani

Sabyn Javeri-Jillani (1977– ) is a poet and short story writer. She was born in Karachi, educated there at St. Joseph's College, and has lived in England and North America. Her fiction has been published in
The World Audience
(USA),
Wasafiri
(UK),
Tresspass
(UK), and
The London Magazine—A Review of Literature and the Arts
(UK). As her contribution to this anthology is also the title story, so was her story the
title story in the HarperCollins anthology
Neither Night nor Day (2007)
. She lives in London and is earning her masters degree at Oxford University.

“And Then the World Changed” describes a lively multicultural neighborhood—a traditional
mohalla
with old houses and narrow lanes—in an older part of Karachi in the 1960s. The story evokes the heavy hand of martial law hanging over the country and its people, who thirst for news from sources other than the censored broadcasts of Radio Pakistan. Uncle Bobby's huge American car and its radio become symbols, not of modernity or Westernization, but of subversion—providing access to music, songs, and broadcasts beyond the reach of the censors. The story highlights how the sense of personal and national threat created by war—the 1965 conflict with India—leads to polarization and divisions that foreshadow the armed conflicts that broke out among Karachi's ethnic communities in the 1990s and the rise of violent religious extremists in Pakistan, with their parrot-green turbans as a symbol of Islam.

• • •

It wasn't easy, steering a car through the narrow streets of old Karachi. Tiny beads of sweat formed on Bobby Uncle's forehead as he craftily navigated the big-hooded vehicle. Much to the amusement of passersby who looked on with unabashed curiosity at the strange contraption making its way through the brickpaved alleys, he continued to struggle with the giant steering wheel. Short and thin, he seemed dwarfed by the car he drove. It was the kind of motorcar they had only seen in a cinema hall. Usually, a donkey cart or, if there was a special festival, a small taxi would occasionally grace their streets—but to see an actual bright and shiny motorcar make its way down the narrow paths of their neighborhood was not just cause for curiosity, but an actual thrill.

Some shouted at him to get the evil invention of the West out of their
mohalla
while others slapped the bonnet, screaming directions. “Here, here, take a left, back up a little, brother.
Arrey
! Watch out for the pole!” The lads shouted advice while the children jumped up and down, trying to catch a glimpse of the interior.

Munna, Bobby Uncle's five-year-old nephew, ran out in the alley to see what all the commotion was about. He nearly fell into an open manhole in his excitement when he discovered that it was his very own uncle who was the owner of this glossy motorcar. He ran back inside the house, announcing at the top of his lungs to his deaf grandmother, his baby sister, his next door neighbor, and his mother, who was busy preparing the afternoon meal, the arrival of the shiny contraption into their family.

“A motorcar! A real motorcar, I've seen Bobby Uncle drive up in one.”

“Are you making up stories again, Munna?” asked Munira, his ten-year-old neighbor who spent more time in their house than she did in her own.

“I swear on your dad's grave, he has a real live motorcar!” replied Munna.

“Oye! You son of the devil!” she screamed at him, “How many times have I told you not to do that. My father is alive, thank Allah.”

“What are you shouting at my son for?” Munna's mother came to his rescue.

“Look at him,
Apa
! He does it deliberately to upset me, sending my Pa to the grave when he is alive!”

“Oh, come now. He probably picked it up from the rogues on the streets,” she consoled. “Munna, stop disturbing the women and go and play outside.” She shooed him out.

Outside, Bobby Uncle was still struggling with his Chevy.

Turning corners with a Chevy in the maze of narrow alleys that formed the old town was no joke. Bobby Uncle was half leaning out of the front window while well-wishers hung onto the sides, offering their expert advice. Suddenly the car lurched forward and then, with a grueling screech, it shuddered to a
stop. Bobby Mama fell forward over the steering, knocking over a roadside seller's wares. The seller cursed him, but Bobby Mama was too embarrassed by the dead engine to care about the seller's loss. To save face Bobby Uncle announced to the neighbors that he had stopped the car there because it was the best parking spot in the neighborhood. The fact that it blocked old woman Hajjin's doorway and the turning into the next lane, seemed of little concern to him.

He tooted the car's shrill horn and Munna's Hindu neighbor, Luxmi, rushed out with a
pooja thali
to ward off the evil eye. Other neighbors like the deaf Jewish musician and short-sighted Parsi uncle also stepped out of their stooped doorways to look at the novelty in their neighborhood. When Munna's
amma
saw the motorcar she couldn't stop gushing to anyone who'd listen, what a success her brother was. She would go on for hours and Munna's poor father regularly bore the brunt of her praise for her brother and his motorcar. Especially when they had to travel by bus on the rare occasions that they left the neighborhood.

The car was grand—to that everyone agreed. Nobody seemed to care that it never started. It coughed and groaned but never ran. The rides by the sea that Munna and his mother had been looking forward to would have turned into haunting complaints had it not been for the car's sleek new radio. Every Saturday, Munna's mother and other women from the neighborhood would get into the car and tune in to All India Radio. They would listen to the gossip about movie stars, and sing along with Indian film songs banned by the strict Islamic regime. A stranger to the neighborhood would find it very odd and perhaps a little spooky to see a car bulging at the seams, its windows covered with
dupattas
in respect of the veil, shaking from side to side with music drifting out. But while the women held a weekly gathering in the car, the men met up at night. At nine p.m. sharp, the neighborhood men would gather around the car and Bobby Uncle would tune the radio to the World Service.

Beep. Beep.
“This is BBC London,” the announcer's voice would boom out, “You are listening to Muhammed Shafi with the latest news in Urdu.” A silence would descend on the
mohalla
as the men concentrated on happenings around the world.