The Ink Bridge (9 page)

Omed was raised a Muslim and taught tolerance. His father had said the many gods of the Hindus were all aspects of one God and that all people's belief in something similar united them. For these words the Talib had delivered him to his God.

The driver saw Omed staring at the tiny figure on his dash. ‘Lord Murugan,' he said to him, continuing in English. ‘He is my God. Number-wan. I love him wery much. He is helping me when no one else can.'

The driver reached for the radio. The tinny wail of a Hindi song struck the cold air inside the taxi. It was like two strange currents meeting in the fork of a river and the whirlpool they created made Omed's head turn circles. He had not slept on the plane, which added to his dizziness. He closed his eyes for a moment.

He bumped awake in a crowded street in front of a crumbling hotel. The Snake reached in through the window and pinched him on the cheek.

‘Hurry,' he said.

The taxi driver held out his hand to Omed.

‘It was nice to be meeting you,' he said.

‘Come on!' yelled the Snake.

Inside the hotel, Sikhs in neat blue turbans were sipping large mugs of beer. Tourists were rubbing sweat from their cheeks onto the shoulders of their short-sleeved shirts while around them, paint sloughed from the walls in leprous sheets. The creaking fans did not even wake the heavy air.

They put their bags in a room then ate lunch at a wooden table in the dining room. The waiter drew white bibs around their necks and brought hot steel plates of meat, over which he poured gravy until the tablecloth was spattered with meat juices. Omed picked up his knife. It was a weapon that didn't belong at the table. He pushed at his meat. The weather was too hot for this food, full of blood and fat. The Snake tore at his meal, grease spilling down his chin, while the two Hazara drank beer and smoked. All around, men and women became noisy and drunk.

‘Why do you wear a coat?' one of the Hazara asked him. ‘You are sweating like an ox. Take it off you idiot!' But the coat was the only thing between them and Omed's money.

They demanded Omed pay for the meal.

‘You are a rich boy. We know. Come on rich boy, pay for your brothers!'

Omed paid and excused himself, slipping out of the dining room and upstairs to the room. He dropped heavily onto the bed, falling asleep quickly and without dreams.

He awoke, sweating, gasping for air. Where was he? He had dreamed of home – the square of mud wall with its single loose brick, the sight of the table through the doorway. But he was far from Bamiyan and that feeling tore at him, forced a strange howl from his throat.

He opened the window onto the noisy street. The night air was as unbreathable as oil, insects clouded round the streetlights and hawkers had set up stalls on the footpaths. Omed noticed the taxi driver sitting alone at a small tea cart.

He shut the window and left the room, creeping past the dining room where the Snake and his companions were shouting over a table of bottles. Omed crossed the street, dodging scooters and buses, ignoring the calls of men to buy their food, cheap watches and plastic shoes. The taxi driver was sipping a glass of water and he did not see Omed approach. Omed reached out his hand for the man's shoulder but withdrew it. The man turned as if he had been touched.

‘My friend, it is wonderful to see you,' he said, flashing his brilliant smile. ‘Come, sit, I will get you some foods.'

Omed raised his hand to object.

‘You must share something with me. A tea?'

Omed nodded and the driver called to a stall owner, ‘
Teh
tarik satu
!'

The stall owner poured the tea from one jug to another, drawing the jugs apart to froth the milk.

‘Pull tea,' the driver laughed. ‘
Teh tarik.
'

The stall owner drained the tea into a plastic bag and slipped in a straw.

‘Come, we will walk and talk,' said the driver. ‘I have some time to finish.'

He saw Omed hesitate over the bag. ‘It is okay,' he said, his head rocking loosely on his shoulders. ‘You drink. This good
pull tea
. I am only not drinking because of fasting. Only water today, I must regretfully announce, and for the last forty days. And we must walk because walking is good for talking. It is helping words to spill.'

They walked down the busy road, blending onto the street when the footpath became too crowded.

‘You must call me Puravi for that is me. It is meaning
horse
.' He laughed loudly as he leapt into the path of an oncoming bus. Narrowly avoiding death, he turned his body at the last moment so it was only his thick black hair that was swept up by the smoky breeze. The driver leant on his horn, but that only made Puravi laugh louder.

‘See. See how sure-footed I am. Like a horse. I am sorry if I am scaring you, but I am only having fun. Tonight is a special night, my friend, and I am very full of happiness. Is it not wonderful?' He paused, waiting for a response from Omed. ‘You do not speak, no matter, I will speak for both of us.' He laughed again as they crossed the road by a mosque.

‘People say if you want a lawyer who can talk you must hire an Indian. For this you do not pay by the word. But I am only a taxi driver. Still I have come far. Is not the city beautiful at night? Do the lights not shine like jewels? Look, some of them have fallen into the river.' He pointed at a dark serpent of water that had sprung up beside them. ‘Even she is beautiful at night. Now we cannot see the plastic bag and dead dog and mud.

‘Hindus have great respect for the rivers. Mother Ganga in India sprouted from Siva's hair. Siva is very important god and Ganga is important river. See this bridge.'

The bridge was a dark hump with the river easing under it.

‘That is way across without trouble. No need to get wet foot. From one sides to next sides, no problem. You want to see the highest up bridge? I can show you this no charge, but we must go by my taxi as it is far.'

While they drove, Puravi allowed a plastic pocket of photos to gush onto the seat between them. They stopped at traffic lights and were immediately surrounded by motorcyclists, pushing to the head of the traffic. Puravi switched on the light and pointed at the first photo.

‘This!' he said pointing at the photo. ‘My wife Ambuvali. Is she not beautiful?'

Omed nodded. Her gold jewellery shone against her dark skin.

‘Ambuvali meaning
piercing eyes
. See the shape of her eyes.'

Omed bent closer, studying the photo, her kohl-rimmed eyes.

‘Eyes like arrow tips. Like
vel,
the spear, of Lord Murugan.' He touched the photo with his fingers and then moved to the next one. It was of a small child, a girl with the thick black hair of Puravi and the arrow-tip eyes of Ambuvali. As Omed looked from the photo to Puravi, he noticed the man's lips disappear under his beard. Puravi shoved the car into first gear and rushed away from the lights. The motorcycles were like a swarm of angry bees around them. When the bikes had gone, he whispered, ‘This is my daughter.' He closed the wallet and held it against his chest for a moment, steering with his free hand. ‘This is a special story. This one is miracle.'

Puravi eased the taxi into a space in front of an open-fronted restaurant. Glazed ducks hung from hooks and food was being tossed in huge curved pans over roaring gas burners. The cooks in dirty white singlets mopped their brows with rags thrown over their shoulders. Puravi took Omed by the hand along the dark street. Above them and beyond, a dark giant of a building peered over its brother's shoulder into the valley between the shops and houses. The buildings pierced the sky like swords.

‘My daughter,' said Puravi, coming back to the story. He leant against the doorway of an old shop and his face was split by shadow. ‘Her name is Inimbili because we knew when she was born even her cry was sweet. That is her name –
sweet voice
. Inimbili is hard to be born and Ambuvali she almost dying with the strain of it. I thought I would lose everythings, but Inimbili, she is born and everyone is happy and I am dancing and sometime I am drinking whiskies and people they are looking at me differently now and I am proudly because I am a daddy and the world looks different. You understand?'

Omed shook his head slowly and Puravi shrugged. ‘I have this very big feeling inside me and sometimes it is too proudly and I am angering God. I do not know. Maybe it is because I am having too much happy and this is not my karma.'

He stopped and twisted his lower lip with his fingers. ‘My Inimbili, she is getting sickly. She is burning feverish and I am too stupid, too stupid, to get doctor quickly. I do go, but later. I run, I get doctor, but then it is too late.'

He rubbed his face in the crook of his elbow, his eyes were shiny. ‘It is too late. I am stupid.'

Omed wanted to put his hand on the man's shoulder. After a moment they resumed their slow walk. Rain drifted down from the two towers, castles against the purple-black of the sky, a new bruise.

‘Ambuvali she is crying for two years. Every night, you cannot believe this noise, this kind of sorrow. I am drinking whiskies again, but this time not for dancing, not for happy. For sad. Ambuvali she is wanting for another baby, but I am afraid. What if I lose her? Then I lose everythings. But she says, “You must be brave Puravi, because if you live with fear you lose what is goodly in life.” She is very clever, my wife. She could have been doctor, or lawyer. Maybe in a next life.

‘So we try for baby, but no baby. And the doctor, they say there is problems inside and it is not possible any more for baby. And I say to Ambuvali, “It is not possible, Ambuvali, we must accept this and be happy.” But she says, “No, Puravi. No! I will not settle for this. Go and pray to Lord Murugan.” And I go and pray, but secret I am afraid because if Lord Murugan grant us this wish then I must do Thaipusam, this is one Hindu festival, with
kavadi
. You know this
kavadi
?'

Omed shook his head.

‘If wishing is granted you must carry
kavadi
. It is like a tower – a mountain – joined with hooks to body. Inside there is rice and milk for offering to Lord Murugan. There is much pain if you are not fully in trance. For this you must fast carefully, eat only vegetables and curds, no meat. You must take meditation for forty days and desist from bad thoughts and pleasures. You must not even shaving.' He rubbed at the coarse bristles on his neck.

‘Down by the river they bathe you and join you to
kavadi
and then you must walk to Batu Cave. It is two hundreds and seventy two steps and it smells of bat smells, but on Thaipusam when we pray to Lord Murugan with our bodies, the air is full of camphor and sweet incenses and the people chant “
Vel . . . vel . . . vel . . .
” and everybodies is dancing and it is most magical. And I take these many steps to the temple of Lord Murugan and I feel no pain, not even from the spear in my cheeks because it reminds me of the love of my God because he has given Ambuvali and me another chance, another baby.'

They crossed the road under the huge buildings and walked around the sleek glass until they met them head on.

‘See the bridge,' said Puravi, and Omed followed the tip of his finger to a point not quite halfway up the two towers. ‘Two brothers with one arm out to the other, that is the sky-bridge.' Puravi put his hand on Omed's shoulder to show him what he meant. ‘Is this not what a bridge is for? For reaching and touching? Once this bridge is built then it is forever and you can cross it any-such time.

‘I have been up there and it is incredible I tell you. I have been standing on that bridge looking down right here.'

Omed looked up at the bridge, the arm flung out between the Brothers, and wondered what the world looked like from up there. Above the bridge, the buildings towered upwards until they narrowed, like the sharp peaks of mountains. Omed thought back to when he had watched the American towers collapse while he was in the camp in Pakistan; the terrible frailty of standing alone. The Brothers were stacked in each other's shadow, but there was something comforting about the bridge and the way it reached out and touched, this connection making each one stronger, more stable.