Cinnamon Zone: Mine

Invisible Wounds: The Ball Maker

Wed, 07 Nov 2007 22:11:00 GMT

My eyes followed the ball closely, waiting for it to tear into the net. I didn't really care who was to score, as long as the ball would settle in. Everyone was cheering loudly, but I almost couldn't hear any of their cheering, as all my senses were focused on that white ball getting kicked back and forth between the two ends of the playfield. To see it smeared with dirt like that and treated so savagely made me think of how many hours it took to get it stitched together, and wondered if it was one of mine.

The small coffee shop where the village men gathered to watch football matches was a tiny room with yellow walls that smelled of sweat and cheap cigarettes. I called it the Den, although I don't know how or when I came up with that name. I used to sneak there after work, since my mother wouldn't let me go, saying I was too young to go there. That was a year or so ago, when I used to attend school. My mother used to brag about me to her neighbors, saying I would be a famous doctor one day, and that we will move out of this "desolate nondescript village" as she called it.

Many nights when we were sitting in silence, while my sick father lay in his bed in the next room, my mother sewing in her chair and me leaning over my notebook, earnestly doing my homework, she would raise her eyes to look at me, but I never felt like she was really seeing me; for her smile and the sudden glitter in her eyes made her seem to me as if she was looking out to the ocean while effectively daydreaming of something more beautiful than I could ever imagine. Once, she said to me after a long pause: "You know what, Maniram? You'll go to school, learn your lessons, and then you'll go to the best collage in India, where you'll study to be the best doctor in the country. You'll make lots of money, and once you do, we'll move out of this rotten cell and go live in Mumbai."

My mother has always had very high expectations of me that I was afraid there was no question I would let her down. Each time I remembered my mother's dreamy gaze I would become keener to rise up to those expectations. For all I remember, my mother wanted me to be a doctor more than anything in the world; that's why I found it hard to understand how she could get herself to tell me I was to leave school.

"Maniram" My mother said hesitantly, with her eyes drooping. "You know how much I want you to go to school and be a doctor." There was a long pause before she continued. "But, as you know, your father has grown very sick, and I can't afford the medicine anymore. My work is not paying even for the half of it. I need your help."

The very next morning my mother took me to see a man she called "the contractor". His office was located in an old building, and the office itself was a small gloomy room that reminded me of the coffee shop in some way. There, behind the desk, sat a man about my father's age, but much bulkier than he was, clinching a cigarette between his lips, under his heavy mustache. He took a look at me, studied my hands for a while, and then asked my mother a few questions I don't remember, mostly because I was busy trying to figure out the reason behind them. After that, he opened a notebook that was in front of him, took a pen in one hand and the cigarette from under his mustache in the other, then he let out a curt sigh and wrote something in the notebook.

"Okay" He said after a brief pause. "Bring him in tomorrow. I hope he's a fast learner; I'm having much trouble with dense kids these days. They work half as fast and cost us twice the effort to teach them!"

"Don't worry sir; my son is a very clever boy." My mom said, and then pressed her lips together as if to keep herself from saying any more. I imagine she had a pressing urge to tell him I was going to be a doctor someday, and that we'll move out of here forever, and that I won't have to work with him any more.

The next day my mother took me to the factory in Meerut, where I was to start working. I was very nervous at first, but my tension was eased a great deal when I saw that there was many children my age. My mother got to her knees so her eyes would level with mine, looked me square in the face, and told me in an assuring tone that I would be all right. I suspected from her tone that she herself wasn't feeling that way, and the trembling of her lips when she kissed me confirmed my suspicion.

In the factory, a man showed me what I was supposed to do. He then handed me pieces of rubber, leather and bundles of threads and needles. "The more balls you stitch together, the more money you make" He said as he bent down. "If you need to know anything, you can ask the other kids, but try not to bother them with too many questions as they also have work to do."

I settled in my place on the floor, it was dirty and nowhere near comfortable. I began stitching while stealing glances at the boy next to me. I was trying to pour all my concentration into the work, having my sick father in mind and my mother's dreamy gaze in front of my eyes. For a moment, I even thought she was observing me from her chair. Hours went by and I still didn't finish my first ball. My vision began to blur, and my back ached from bending over, trying to work as fast as I could. When I couldn't bear the haziness and pain anymore, I let go of the needle and leaned my back against the wall. My eyes welled up with tears as I thought of how slow I was. It was at that moment when the boy next to me decided to start a conversation that soothed me a little. "Tired already?" He said half-jokingly. "Don't worry; it's always hard at first. But you seem to be doing well so far. You know, none of us could finish more than 2 balls a day."

His words were somehow comforting; for I knew I wasn't a slow worker. But, for 3 rupees per football, I thought I was supposed to make 5 or 6 balls a day to say that the job was worth it.

I continued going to the factory and stitching balls day in day out, and within one week I was able to produce 2 balls a day. Often when I finished a ball I would hold it up to the bars of light coming through the small window at the top of the wall, and I would feel a great temptation to take it out on the street and kick it with all my might. I've always been fond of football; I used to play it with the neighborhood kids with balls made of worn out socks. but I knew then more than ever that there was no time for me to play with that ball, even though I made it myself. I often consoled myself by thinking that when I become a doctor I would buy one of these balls. I heard that they were being sold for what amounts to 100 rupees each.

At that thought, I found myself starting to pick up speed, which caused me to prick my thumb with the needle, but I didn't make such a big deal of it; I only put the needle aside and sucked the blood from the small wound. I have taken to that kind of accidents by now; it was bound to happen as I always tried to work as fast as I could. The first time I pricked a finger I panicked, fearing it would grow septic. But by then my hands were studded with punctures, and with some of those punctures growing septic, my hands looked like a rusty sifter.

The World Cup tournament started a few months after I'd started working in the factory. One evening after I was done for the day, I decided to sneak to the Den; for there's been much talking about the next game that seemed to be a very important one. To tell the truth, I didn't care to know who was playing, all I wanted to see was the ball rolling on the playfield; I could hardly believe the balls I was making would be juggled by the feet of world renowned players, and that all the eyes and cameras would be following it, waiting for it to rest in one of the nets. What I found most mind-boggling was that, after being kicked around and smeared with dirt, the ball was many times worth what it was when I first stitched it together and held it to the bars of light in pride. For some reason, this made me remember the needle pricks in my hands, and felt them starting to ache.

I stayed in the Den for an hour or so, watching closely as people around me went fanatically on ranting and calling names. I didn't know what they were so angry about, and didn't even try to find out; being too busy counting the balls thrown in the field. I was surprised at the number of balls used in one match. If one ball flies out of the field, they throw in another one immediately, like it was nothing. This made me think of how many people and children my age were making footballs out there. I tried to do the math in my head all the way home, but I still couldn't figure it out.

I went on my way thinking, unaware of the bustle around me; for it seemed the match had ended and the fans of both teams were celebrating and engaging in fights in the streets. As I reached home, I opened the door as quietly as I could. Everything was as I left it in the morning. My mother was sewing in her chair, my father groaning in the next room, and the same heavy silence filling the place. Who said silence has no sound? Maybe we've just grown too familiar with it that it became very hard to distinguish.

My mom didn't ask me anything, and just responded to my good night with a curt nod. I figured she didn't want to shatter the silence around, or she's just lost the desire to speak. I headed to my room with the same thought still spinning in my head. As I lay in my bed, I tried so hard to shut it out. In the past, I loved to stare at the ceiling and indulge in daydreams for a while before I finally gave in to sleep, but I stopped this habit ever since I started working in the factory. I was often too tired to think, but even when I had some energy left in me, I forced myself to sleep because all I could think of was worrying about what lay ahead of me the next day, and it never fell short of my expectations. But that night I couldn't block out that same pressing idea. I wondered what would become of me in the future, and how it would turn out to be.

I can't remember when or how I fell asleep that night, maybe my brain was too exhausted at last from all those thoughts. All I can remember is that I closed my eyes, wishing with all my heart I would never have to wake up.

The last hanging

Sun, 11 Mar 2007 19:45:00 GMT

"I want to be a lifeguard, like my father." The teacher said that was my son's answer when she asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up. She then sat across from me, investigating my coarse appearance with contempt, looking rather appalled.

"I understand the complexity of the situation, but it's about time he knew. You know you should do something to reduce the shock by then."

"Well, you know my job is kind of sensitive, and kids tend to have big mouths" I replied coldly.

"But, a lifeguard? Your son thinks of you as a superhero!"

"Well, I wouldn't put it that way…"

"Let me ask you something" She interrupted. "Are you satisfied with what you do?"

I could clearly see the reason behind her question, what I couldn't see was the answer she was expecting. Are you satisfied with what you do? A perfectly normal question, if asked to a baker or a blacksmith, not a hangman. You don't ask a hangman if he'ssatisfied with his job. If you must, ask him how he feels when he takes the life of someone he believes to be innocent the same way he takes that of a serial killer or a drug dealer, or how he grows nauseated each time someone drops through that trap door and turns into a lifeless body swinging in the wind, all in the matter of minutes.

"Excuse me" The teacher's voice brought me back to realty. "Are you satisfied with your job?"

"Well, I'm just another human being."

She forced a heavy smile and said nothing. But I knew almost for certain what she was thinking. What on earth does the devil look like?

****

My daily encounter with death cast its shades on every detail of my life. My relation with my wife, kids, people and even with myself. I could not look into the mirror without feeling a strong urge to spit, which made me excuse the sideway glances I get from others all the time. I could feel the stiffness of my wife's body whenever I touched her. The rigidity of her skin, the tightening if her voice. I knew that with every passing day, we drew further apart. My son would always ask me to tell him some of my life-saving stories, and I would ramble on and on about how I saved those little school kids when their boat sank a few miles off shore. I enjoyed telling those stories and nearly believed them myself, except that deep inside, a huge wave of disgust tore into my guts…

Very few people in the neighborhood knew what my job really was. Curiously enough, Zaki the garbage man was one of them. He had a dark complexion, a pair of coarse hands, caked with dust and dirt. I always looked down on him, but deep inside I was green with envy; because I knew that as soon as he got home, he got rid of all that dirt by a simple shower, something I've been trying to do for many years.

"And I thought I had the worst job in the world" Once said Zaki, with a small chuckle. "Dealing with all that rubbish everyday. But, you know what? When I come home to my wife and kids, I feel like the cleanest person on earth."

I gave him a sarcastic remark, a skill I acquired through years of experience with the ironic contrast between life and death. He gave me a brief look that I suspected to be one of empathy, and said: "You may joke about it, but I'm telling you: that job redeems me. And they call me a garbage man! Why should I be labeled with garbage when all I do is to collect your rubbish? Then, all of a sudden, you are disgusted with me!"

Ironically, the disgust I felt with myself that moment left no room to be disgusted with Zaki anymore. I only I wished that, somehow, Zaki would be up on the gallows the very next morning, waiting for me to tie the rope around his neck and see him swinging like a rubber dummy.

A sudden call shook off all those memories at once, and I was back again at the hanging room, waiting for my next prey. All those years gave me an extraordinary talent of knowing who's innocent and who's guilty by looking into their eyes. Both had their eyes full of fear, but the innocent ones had it mixed with bitterness. The guilty, with regret. Two huge guards came through the doorway, dragging a shackled man, who didn't show any resistance. I was wearing a black hood that had slits for my eyes, something that has always added to my sense of villainy. I was also carrying another hood for the convict, but that one had no slits whatsoever, something I never understood the wisdom of.

The three of them approached the gallows in firm steps, the huge men looking fairly normal doing such a routine task. The dead-man-walking looked no less normal than they were. There was a strange calm surrounding him, so intense that it gave me the shivers. For some reason I didn't know, I wanted to snatch the hood off my head and run… just run without thinking whereto. But the next thing I knew was the man all but set up on the gallows to face his eminent death. All that was left for me was to wrap his head with the black hood, then, show time.

He was tall and skinny, old enough to be my father. The wrinkles in his forehead looked like cracks in a worn-out rock. He had a long, white, well-trimmed beard. He possessed a certain poise that made me think that he could never have committed a crime that makes him deserve biting the dust.

Reluctantly, I held the hood above his head to shut him out, wondering what good it would do. The man eyes were silently following my movements, till he blurted out all of a sudden…

"You know I don't need this! You are doing it so you won't have to see my face."

He paused for a moment, as if waiting for me to absorb the idea, then sighed and turned his face away. "Go on, spare yourself some nightmares."

The officer in charge yelled at me to continue with the procedures, and without blinking, I blocked out all the thoughts burning in my mind, putting the hood into place hastily, making sure he wouldn't get another glimpse of this life.

The hanging went perfectly normal. We heard the choking sound tearing out of his throat as he recited the Declaration of Faith - which he wasn't given enough time to finish- and watched as he swung by the neck, back and forth in the chilly wind.

Loaded with all what I had previously blocked out, I walked slowly out of the hanging room, for the urge I had to run had faded away. And as I do after every hanging, I went to the clerk to get my wages, feeling all the humiliation in the world eating away at me.

"Good one, tiger!" said the clerk jokingly. I gave him my back and walked away, without the slightest response.

As I walked home, everything seemed normal, nothing seemed to have been changed, the sun hasn't frozen and the earth hasn't stopped turning around. Only I was changed forever. I kept walking along the river, observing the people humming around, wondering what could be their biggest concerns. I stopped at some point, looking at the ripples on the silver sheet of the river… I fished for the blood-soaked wages in my pocket, looked at them with disgust and then looked again at the river. For a moment, I thought if redemption ever materialized, it would most probably be a river. I smiled at the thought, and without thinking any further, sent the coins sinking in the water, throwing them as far as I could… a life wasted for free.

A not-so-short story

Sun, 10 Dec 2006 17:54:00 GMT

She’s dying anyway…

What harm will be done if I tell her? Just once! She’s not staying for long, few weeks and everything will be buried with her: the pain, the shame, the guilt and the madness.

I never shared my feelings with anyone. Every time I tried, words won’t escape my mouth. I kept everything in a deep well I dug years ago, somewhere inside. A bottomless well that got deeper and deeper over the years. I thought I was thus sparing my dignity, among other things. I never knew I’ve built a steel shell around myself, not until it was too late.

Ironically, it wasn’t until one sad afternoon that I started to see the light at the end of the tunnel. My mother had hard time deciding how to tell me the sad news, not knowing that my life is about to take a new turn.

“Her heart is so week. Doctors say she needs an immediate transportation. She’s on the waiting list, but people of the same condition are too many and…”

She needed not say more. My cousin is dying. I get it.

At first, the shock was enormous, but then I started to see it.

She’s dying… let her take your burden to the grave.

I knew I should be ashamed of myself to think like that, but I was desperate, and shame was the least of my worries. I started rationalizing, and encouraging myself to go ahead and get over with it… what’s better than sharing your deeply held secrets with a dying person?

That night I couldn’t sleep; my blood was boiling with anticipation. Tomorrow I’ll be free. Free at last.

The next day I made sure to go to the hospital in a time in which there would be no visitors, Just her and me. I entered the room wearing a shy smile, I knew she had such a good faith in me that she would believe I was faking the smile as not to cry upon seeing her in that condition. She would never knew I was trying to hide my shame behind that sheepish smile…

I asked her how she was, and she went on and on about how good she’s feeling and how she’s accepting her fate. Meanwhile, I was thinking how to start telling her what I came for. But I didn’t need to think hard, because she did it for me.

“Seems like you want to say something” she said suddenly, interrupting herself as she noticed that my min was somewhere else.

“Well… I don’t think it’s a good timing” I stammered, knowing it was the perfect time, at least for me.

“Oh, for God sake!” she moaned. “It’s not like we have much time left!”

“Well… you asked for it” I said half jokingly.

She adjusted in her bed, inspecting me with eager eyes, as she has never seen me in such a confessional position. I fidgeted in my seat, avoiding locking eyes with her.

“You know how I always said I had no secrets like other girls” I kicked it off. “Well, not exactly”

She smiled knowingly and nodded for me to continue.

“You know I always preferred to keep it to myself, but now I feel that I can’t bear it anymore. It’s eating away at me” I paused here and looked timidly at her. “Promise me you won’t think ill of me or judge me for anything I say”

“I promise”.

“Well, this might look silly I know, but I’m in love”

“That’s good for a start!” she said with a curt nod.

“Well, that’s not all” started speaking rapidly as not to hear what I’m saying. “I was in love with my best friend’s fiancé. I was in love with him before I knew they were on a relation. I never had the guts to tell her, I just choked it up, and it killed me. I listened to her when she talked about him. I gave her advice and helped them to make up whenever they had a fight. I even picked his gifts with her. It was eating me alive, and nobody knew”

“Then, what happened then?”

“As I expected,, they broke up. I must be ashamed to admit that a part of me was happy. No! Not only a part of me, Iwas happy. Actually, it was the happiest day in my life. I acted sorry while I was consoling her, but inside, I felt like dancing with joy. The worst of all is that I didn’t feel guilty, not at all. I knew they were so different, a total mismatch. I knew it, but I went so far as to think that he had something for me. How stupid! You know sometimes you want something badly that you think you feel it. Desire mistaken for hunch. How pathetic!”

She smiled and waited for me to continue. I looked at her through the corner of my eye, and then blurted: “I never told you my bus driver tried to rape me when I was sixteen”

She stared in awe, said nothing.

“Well, I don’t like to remember the details, it took me a good deal of time trying to get over it. Thank God I remembered my mother’s advice. Go for the eyes. Fortunately, I had my nails done that day, I almost took out his eyeball” I grinned uneasily, and she giggled along, trying to soothe me into going on. “Worse yet is that he still drove me to and from school for the rest of the year”. I said coarsely.

I readjusted myself on the cushioned chair. “I… I killed our neighbour’s son”

She opened her eyes wide and stared with shock. She tried to mutter something but she couldn’t make anything up.

“He was 2 or 3 years old, and he…” I paused, fighting back the tears that started to stream down my face. “He was trying to get a cherry from the fruit bowl, so I helped him to some. It didn’t occur to me that he’d swallow the seed… it was too big for him. I didn’t know what to do, I ran for help, but it was too late.”

She buried her face with her hands. And before she asked anything, I answered her unspoken question. “Nobody knew I gave him the cherry.” I gasped, looked her in the eye and cried out, “I didn’t mean to do it!”

A heavy silence prevailed for few minutes, then without uttering a single word, I stormed out of the room. That was the last time I saw her.

For several days before she died, she had tried to call me and leave me messages that I would not care to check. Whenever my mom asked me why I didn’t visit her, I would say I couldn’t bear seeing her in that situation. After the funeral, I ran home as fast as I could, stormed into my room, buried my face in the pillow and wept for hours.

Several days after that, I hesitantly picked up my phone, and with a trembling hand, I opened my messages, not knowing why I was doing it then. Maybe she wanted to tell me something. I hesitated for a moment. Finally, I opened the messages, one after another, all of them were brief, and said the same thing:

“I was raped too. You never told me attacking the rapist’s eyes would save me”

Angy

Sun, 12 Feb 2006 00:29:00 GMT

The day of the funeral, everything in the house seemed the color of mud. I could smell death in every sniff of air, feel it in every corner of the house, and sense its bitterness in every face.

However, there was that face that whenever I saw, bitterness would change into hope, and sorrow into joy. A face that hadn’t learned the language of sorrow yet, and sang in a totally different tune. It was Angy’s.

Angy, at that time, was the very youngest member of the family. A gorgeous, extremely innocent 6 month-old baby girl. She had a perfectly rounded head, mops of smooth, straight brownish hair and the bonniest pair of eyes. Her chubby mellow cheeks, along with her toothy smile beaming through her full-moon face made her absolutely irresistible.

She was even more adorable when she sat on the big couch, half-bent over, with her tiny little legs stretched out, leaving her feet not so far from her tummy. A posture that would make her look like a small tennis ball.

Her name was a bit heavy on our tongues. It’s Turkish for angel. I also heard that it means a group of seven heaven beauties. Quite special!

Despite the beautiful and unique meanings, we had a tendency to use an easier-pronounced nickname. We called her Annoona. A bit long for a nickname, but we got the hang of it at last.

“Little girls are the cutest thing on earth!” I would frequently repeat, being under the influence of that little enchantress.

For me, Angy - or Annoona -was not a mere little chubby cute baby. She was a symbol of life, hope, renovation and everything good left on earth.

However, there was a time when she caused me to cry, though indirectly.

I entered the living room in my grandma’s house and found them looking at some pictures of Annoonah, printed on A4 papers. I grabbed the pile of pictures and exclaimed joyfully to my cousin, Mais: “Hey! Annoona’s pictures!” She nodded with a not-so-happy expression.

I sat next to her looking at pictures; she didn’t seem interested at all.

I couldn’t understand the reason behind her screwed up mood, till I reached a paper on which was the photo of our late grandfather with Annoona in his lap. On the picture there were 3 verses of poetry, the small poem that my grandfather had composed for Angy, his youngest grandchild, few months before he passed away, signed at the bottom of the page with the cordial dedication:

From grandfather Ibrahim Al-Salah to dearest granddaughter Angy Al-Salah

Reading that stirred dozens of emotions and brought tears to my eyes that I tried to hold back. But the mission became harder as I looked at Mais, realizing the reason behind her frown that started to dissolve into a muffled cry.

Failing to mute the pressing sentiment, and without uttering a single word, we rushed to the kitchen and wept openly.

The Thing

Thu, 09 Feb 2006 19:30:00 GMT

“Long time no see!” I exclaimed when I saw Sara and gave her a big hug. How are things going with your fiancé?”

“You mean my X-fiancé. We’ve broken up.” She said, trying to fake a shy smile.

“Why, what happened?”

“He had a fight with my father. He tried to apologize but my dad wouldn’t accept it. Later on the roles were reversed, and he got back at my father by dumping me”

I wasn’t in a position to make a judgment, but I certainly felt terribly sorry for the poor girl. Being abandoned by someone you love is the worst heart-breaking feeling a girl could experience.

“What if they have reconciled?” I thought to myself. “The whole problem might have been forgotten in a matter of weeks.”

I wonder how much time she needs to overcome her abandonment.

That is how I see it: The father refused to compromise at the beginning, the son-in-law refused to compromise afterwards, and the girl had to pay for it.

“Why did the girl’s feelings have to be in the second place?”

Well, something had to be sacrificed at the end, and it couldn’t be the superior macho pride!

Typical male society.

“Or maybe he didn’t love her enough” I wondered in a second thought.

But, how much is enough?

A relative term, I thought.

“Maybe I should stop here” I thought to myself. “I’m sort of a hardliner when it comes to this subject ”

Is it me who is asking for too much, or I am really not getting enough?

Someone who can’t even say Love and uses a term like this subject instead, must be having a problem.

Nonetheless, I have to admit that there were times when I felt an excessive need for love, not in its direct narrow meaning, but for love as a vast concept. In other words, I needed people.

One of those weary nights where I felt as if a huge stone was resting upon my heart, I rambled between pressing random thoughts that dashed through my brain like an angry stampede.

“The amount of love you give determines the amount of love you get from others.” That one seemed fairly logical.

“But” I thought, “Giving someone all the love you could is no guarantee that you’ll get anything in return.” That one woke up a not-so-nice memory.

Which nullifies which? Neither.

As I wrote this, the idea seemed more complicated than I thought, and it diverged into several theories and possibilities.

“Love is such a dilemma.”

That was my final conclusion

******

I can’t help, as I write this, but to think of my grandfather in his army suit, passing by the house where my grandmother lived. They didn’t say a word, nor needed to. It began there, and lasted for 50 years.

I still remember him sitting beside her on the sofa, singing for her “ya wardet el hob el safi”, which would make her blush and try to stop him. But he didn’t refrain from showing his affection, he would just giggle and continue the song: “Teslam edain elli sa’aki".

She also loved him, even if she didn’t show it his way. But her words would sometimes betray her, and a smooth flow of love would slip through her tongue.

“No one takes care of you as much as I do.” She mumbled one day as she handed him a plate of sweets. She always knew that he was fond of sweet. A man of a sweet tongue, and a sweet tooth.

But her love for him would become more and more radiant in his last days, too radiant to be hidden. Everyone could see it in her tears, her staying up by his side at night, and spending hours on end on a plastic chair by his bed when he was at hospital.

Despite his sickness, he didn’t take satisfaction only in receiving love, but also in giving more and more to everyone around him.

He appreciated physical gestures of affection. He liked to be kissed and hugged by his sons, daughters and grandchildren. A nice incident I still remember from his last days was when my aunt, his eldest daughter, was sitting beside him on the bed and he was trying to tell her something. She couldn’t understand what he was saying since his breathing and talking were tightened by the disease that crawled up to his lungs. She stretched and put her ear near his mouth so that she could hear him. But he didn’t say anything; he just reached out and kissed her on the cheek.

Easy to give, easy to get… That’s how love seemed in his presence.

** Sara's story is fictional, but based on a true story.