Spirit of a Mountain Wolf (8 page)

Razaq had a sinking feeling in his stomach, but he tried again. “He works in a cloth shop in Moti Bazaar.”

The man laughed. “How many cloth shops are there in Moti Bazaar? How many hairs on a dog?” Then he looked at Razaq as if seeing him for the first time. He sighed. “Go to Moti Bazaar and ask there.”

“Where is it?”

The man gestured toward the south. “Go to Fawara Chowk, then turn east onto Iqbal Road.”

“Shukriya.” Razaq laid his hand over his heart as his father did at such times and walked on. He took a peek back at the man and saw him talking to another man who was smoking outside a shop. Both were shaking their heads.

People in the mountains were suspicious of new people coming into the tribal areas. Razaq was surprised to find city people were the same. He hoped he didn’t do anything to annoy someone. What if there were different rules here? Once, an Angrez had ridden a bicycle into Kala Dhaka. He didn’t wear proper clothes and much of his white skin showed. He stopped to speak to a woman and the woman’s husband shot him. He was obviously a dala; he’d be raping her next or taking her away. You couldn’t trust a man who spoke to a woman who wasn’t his relative.

Razaq reached the chowk. Six roads met at the intersection, and it teemed with cars, buses, bicycles, and rickshaws, all converging like a knot in six lengths of string. And just like a knot they found it difficult to unravel. The tooting of horns and shouting from car windows was deafening. There was even a buffalo in the middle of the chowk. It plodded on without concern as the drivers swerved around it. Razaq jumped out into the traffic. A car blared its horn; another braked with a squeal. He raced in front of a bus and reached the buffalo. She had a frayed rope hanging from her neck.

“A jao, come,” he murmured, “you need the side of the road.” The buffalo’s brown eyes met his, and he was shocked at how tired and listless she looked. Peepu’s eyes always glistened with humor. “Come,” he coaxed, pushing away the image of the ram lifeless on the ground. He finally navigated the lanes of traffic, ignoring the cursing from drivers, and got the buffalo to the mud footpath where there were blades of grass she could nibble.

A man in khaki trousers like a foreigner’s spoke to him. “And what do you think you are doing, boy?”

Razaq’s heart thundered in his chest. He must have broken a rule.

“We are trying to keep buffaloes out of the traffic in the city,” the man said.

Razaq noticed the badge on the man’s shirt, his hat, his stick to hit criminals with. He was either army or police. “That is what I was doing, janab. I was rescuing her.”

“So she is yours?”

Razaq shook his head.

“You were stealing her then.” The man’s hand rested on the baton in his belt.

“No, but I know about animals—they like fields best.”

The man smirked. “I am sure they do. Get going then.”

“The buffalo—”

“Its owner will find it.”

Razaq thought he shouldn’t argue anymore, but the buffalo wrung his heart. His goats and sheep at home had been fat and happy. This buffalo’s skin barely stretched across her ribs and haunches. He knew how to make her better, too—if only he could take her out of the city, she would find enough food to eat. But one more look at the man’s face, stiff and stern, made him walk away.

He asked a man selling shoelaces which of the roads was Iqbal Road.

“I can clean your shoes,” the man answered.

“No, thank you,” Razaq said. Did he look like someone who could waste his money on shoeshining?

“Then I cannot tell you which one is the road.”

Razaq moved on. Why would someone want money to give a simple direction? He asked at a shop, but got shooed away as if he were a beggar.

Finally, a boy about his age told him he knew, but his eyes were canny. “Come with me,” he said, “and I’ll show you.”

“I do not have money to give you,” Razaq said as a precaution.

The boy looked at Razaq’s feet. “Nice sandals.”

Razaq’s eyes flashed. “They are my dead father’s.”

“Teik hai, okay, don’t burst into flames. That one is Iqbal Road.” The boy indicated the busiest road. “I will take you there.”

Razaq followed the boy across two roads, jumping between vehicles. Cars screeched, horns tooted and yet, surprisingly, this time no one seemed angry.

“I do this all the time,” the boy said when they reached the side of Iqbal Road. “Where do you want to go?”

Razaq hesitated, then thought it couldn’t hurt to say. “Moti Bazaar.”

“Then you have to cross Iqbal Road as well—the bazaar is over there.”

Razaq sighed. He had done it by himself when he rescued the buffalo; he could do it again. “Shukriya,” he said.

“You’re not from here, are you?”

Razaq glanced at the boy in surprise.

“Be careful. I know you are alone—you have that look. Others will see it, too, so watch your eyes. My name is Zakim. I live here on the street.”

“Here?”

Zakim made a curious gesture with his eyebrows and nose. “I have a place. If you need help, ask for me.”

Razaq stared at him. How could Zakim help him—he only looked about fourteen, like himself. “I am looking for my uncle, Javaid Khan,” he said, to show he didn’t need help.

“Accha, good. God go with you then.”

Razaq smiled his thanks and plunged into Iqbal Road. He had learned something from Zakim: you just ran across without looking, like swinging in a basket across a mountain stream, and God let the traffic stop for you. When he reached the other side, he stood there panting, but Zakim was nowhere to be seen. He grinned. It had been exhilarating with Zakim. In that moment, he felt hope uncurl in his belly. He would find Uncle Javaid. He just had to ask in all the shops in Moti Bazaar even if it took all day.

He found an iron archway. There were words on top. He sounded them out to himself. There was a meem first: M-O-T-I. Yes, he was where he was meant to be. He sauntered down the gali. Shops lined the tiny street and there was a covering overhead. It was like walking down a tunnel of trees in the forest.

He asked for Javaid Khan at the first cloth shop. The man there waved him away; he was too busy even to open his mouth. At the tenth shop, the man came out to the gali with him. “Look,” he said and pointed up the gali. “Can you see the end of this bazaar?”

Razaq gave a slight shake of his head.

“And not only does it stretch so far you cannot see its end, there are many side streets. It will be Eid before you can visit each one. You need the name of the shop or the name of the owner. Does your uncle own it?”

“I do not know.” Razaq’s voice was quiet.

The man pursed his mouth. “You will just be chasing your tail.” He looked Razaq up and down. “From up north, are you? From the earthquake?”

“Ji, janab.”

“If you get a problem, you can come back here and sleep outside my shop until you find him.”

Razaq opened his mouth to thank him, but the man went on. “You can be my chowkidar. In return I will give you an evening meal.”

Razaq wasn’t sure what sort of chowkidar he would be. What if thieves came and beat him while he was protecting the shop? But he had saved Mrs. Daud’s tent, though that was mainly due to Abdul and Hussain turning up. Still, a job was a job.

“Thank you, janab,” he said.

“What is your name, beta?”

“Razaq.”

“You are a khan, I suppose—all you mountain people are.”

Razaq didn’t answer. It wasn’t true they were all khans, even though his father’s family bore the name. The man didn’t give his name in return, and Razaq didn’t feel he could ask. It wouldn’t be polite. He checked the name of the shop, Deen’s Cloth, before he continued along the gali, asking for his uncle.

There were women everywhere; he’d never seen so many at once except at a wedding. Some didn’t even wear a burqa, and a few girls his age wore tight blue trousers like men and a scarf slung around their necks instead of over their hair. He stared so long at one woman as she walked toward him with her friends that she pinched his face when she reached him. It was something his mother playfully did when she was happy with him.

The woman was very tall with much makeup on her face, and a deep voice. “So what’s a pretty mountain boy like you doing in the city?”

How did she know he was from the mountains? It was as though there was a big sign above his head.

“You need to buy a different hat.” She touched his lambswool pakol. “City boys don’t wear these.” As she moved away, she blew between her fingers at him and winked. Razaq was stunned. He had never known a woman to speak to a boy his age before. Though since he was short and didn’t have a mustache yet, she may have thought he was younger.

He had long stopped counting the shops when he came to one with a TV showing the cricket match in Lahore. Some men were watching the TV while their women fingered the silk cloths. Razaq asked the youngest shop worker if a Javaid Khan worked there. A guarded look came over the young man’s face. Razaq had seen that look before—it meant the man thought he was going to ask for money or food. He steeled himself for what would come next.

“Get lost,” the young man said. “We’ve given enough to kids like you today.”

It was late and Razaq’s stomach rumbled. He made his way back through the warren of shops until he found Deen’s. The man was already eating when Razaq greeted him.

“Find your uncle, beta?”

Razaq gave a tired shake of his head. The man didn’t look sympathetic, but he pushed over a chapatti and moved his bowl of curry closer to Razaq.

“Eat up,” he said. “Chowkidaring is hard work.” He chuckled, but Razaq couldn’t see what was funny.

When the food was gone, the man pulled down the shutters of the shop and laid a mat on the footpath in front. Razaq knew he wouldn’t be a good chowkidar for at least a few hours. When he lay down, he couldn’t keep his eyes open.

He dreamed of his mother. She looked right into his eyes, and he could see the green ringing her black pupils. He had inherited her eyes; his father’s were gray like his sisters’. “Beta, this is not a good job for you,” his mother said. “Wake up. You need to cut the grass for the goats. If your father catches you sleeping, he will beat you. In the village, I am called the mother of Abdur-Razaq, so make me proud of that name, beta. Wake up now or the wolves will find you.”

“Wake up.”

“What?” Razaq opened one eye and sat up suddenly. Someone was shaking him. “Zakim? What are you doing here?”

There were pale lights shining on the walls, sweepers were cleaning the gali, and most of the customers had gone.

Zakim glanced up the bazaar. “We have to get out of here.” He tried to pull Razaq up.

“I am a chowkidar—I cannot leave.”

“Fool. If you’ve been asked to work, it is a lie. Men come here to find lone boys lying outside shops. They will make you a slave. Do you want that?”

Thoughts of Kazim crowded Razaq’s mind, and he jumped to his feet. “Of course not.”

There was the sound of footsteps. A group of men entered the gali from the road.

“They’re coming. Chello, I’ll show you a way out.”

Zakim led Razaq down a side gali Razaq hadn’t seen that afternoon. The men were close behind. Razaq had the impression of sticks, rough voices, and curses.

“This way,” Zakim shouted. He pushed himself into what looked like a round drainpipe. Razaq hesitated.

“Jaldi ao, quickly! They’ll see you.”

A noise from the gali made Razaq plunge in after him. The drain stank. His mother would have made him wash in the river if he came home stinking like this. He held his breath—the pipe couldn’t last forever. When they finally emerged, they were outside. A breeze ruffled the hair sticking out from under Razaq’s hat and the moon was shining. He could tell Zakim was grinning at him.

“How did you find me?”

Zakim laughed. “I thought I’d better keep an eye on you—a babe among wolves.”

Razaq stiffened. That was what his mother had said in the dream. Zakim touched Razaq’s cheek lightly, then pinched it harder than the lady in the bazaar had.

“Hey!”

“Do not worry, I like you. They say brides are as beautiful and pale as the moon, but I bet they don’t match mountain boys like you. That is what I will call you—Chandi, after the moon. It’s why I looked for you, in case someone else thought the same. Besides, I’m often patrolling some bazaar or other at night. I never know what I’ll find. Once I found a wallet with a wad of rupees. It kept us fed for a month.”

“Us?”

Zakim regarded him a moment. “I am not alone. You can join us if you like.” He laughed at Razaq’s confused expression. “In the morning you will see, Chandi. Follow me, I’ll show you where you can sleep.”

Razaq didn’t wake until mid-morning. When he opened his eyes, he was shut inside a huge cardboard box. He felt a rush of panic and then he remembered Zakim. Three small children sat cross-legged watching him. He sat up, blinking sleep away. “Where am I?”

“This is the Rag Mahal,” the tallest girl said. She had lost a tooth like his youngest sister, Layla, and when she spoke, she reminded Razaq so strongly of her he winced.

“A palace?” he murmured.

The boy stood up. Razaq tried not to stare at him for he was disfigured: he had no nose, only holes in his face, and his arms were too short and so were his legs.

“My name is Raj,” he said. “This is Hira, she is the youngest, and this is Moti.” His voice was strange: muffled and lisping, as if part of his mouth was missing inside. “Moti is named after the Moti Bazaar because Zakim found her alone there when she was little.”

“But it means pearl,” Moti added with pride.

Razaq studied the gap in her teeth. How long had Zakim been living like this? Six years?

“Why do you have green eyes?” Raj asked. “Are you magic? A genie?” He sounded hopeful.

“I do not think so,” Razaq said. He searched the solemn faces in front of him. “Did Zakim find you all?”

“Of course,” Moti said. “Didn’t he find you?”

“He gives us all a name,” Raj said. “And now we have to show you what to do. We work here.”

Razaq crawled out of the shelter to see what the boy meant. Before him was a mountain of garbage. He had never seen so much rubbish. At home, his mother had made use of most things, and what the goats wouldn’t eat, he had buried.