Children of Dust_ A Memoir of Pakistan - Ali Eteraz [41]
What I didn’t want to do was to recite the Quran in a room with no fans in the stale sleepiness of late afternoon. Nor did I want to be bent over in the rooster position and beaten. I missed the life I had before I was enrolled at the madrassa. The days of playing catch against my bedroom wall, dreaming of becoming an Iblis-fighting angel. The afternoons when I propped charpais on their side and made a fort and called myself Saladin the Liberator, spilling oil onto the Crusaders’ armies, withstanding a siege by Richard the Lion-heart, and then doing diplomacy with him during which I met with his sister and impressed her with my warrior prowess by throwing her scarf high in the air and cutting it in two perfect halves with my scimitar. I wanted to live in my imagination—not as a spindly-legged spider in the Quranic cryptograms. I didn’t want to be a droning echo, stuck chanting a book in a language I didn’t understand. I liked the Quran at night, when Ammi told me stories from it—stories about the Prophets. I didn’t like the Quran forced into my mouth on the authority of Qari Jamil’s big brown stick—a Quran to be chewed and vomited.
“Hey, Bilal,” I said suddenly. “Do you know what time the lorry to Peshawar passes by?”
“Before maghrib prayer,” he said as the shadow of the minaret fell across his face. “Why, babu? Are you planning on taking a trip?”
“Yes, I am. A long one.”
“Don’t bother,” he replied. “A lorry would never stop for a little one like you.”
“Not even if I stood in front of it?”
“That sounds serious!” he said, referring to my resolve. “You trying to run away or something?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Now?”
“No. Take me home first. I want to tell my parents why I’m leaving.”
When I got home the electricity was gone, as was often the case at midday, and so the cooler was off and everyone was in a bad mood. Pops lay in bed while Ammi fanned him. They had just finished eating mangoes; a tray of emptied plates sat near them. Two steel glasses filled with lassi, a yogurt drink, sat tilted in a clump of sheets. The fact that they had eaten mangoes without me made me think they were decadent, and that upset me even more.
They looked up, surprised to see me at home when I should have been in school. “I’m not going to go to the madrassa anymore,” I announced, trying to sound even more definitive this time. “If you make me go, I’ll run away to Peshawar. I’ve learned where the lorry leaves.” I sat down and began drinking the leftover lassi. Even though it was warm and salty, it felt good going down. I felt in charge.
When I’d finished and had burped loudly, a slap hit the back of my head and sent me hurtling toward the door.
“I told you,” Pops said. “You cannot come home until you’ve been to the madrassa.” He wasn’t messing around.
Normally I would have cried and made a scene and ended up in Ammi’s arms, but this wasn’t a time for empathy. I had to up the ante.
“Well, that seals the deal,” I said, standing up. “I’m going to run away from home. I’m going to take the lorry that goes to Peshawar. Then I’m going to join the mujahideen and go into battle. That means you’ll never see me again. This is what you reap for sending me to that madrassa. Khuda hafiz,” I added in farewell.
“Come on, Abir,” Ammi said. “There’s no reason to run away. Just be a good boy and go to the madrassa.”
“No deal.”
Pops stayed quiet for a while. Then he spoke up rigidly: “All right. Run away, then. We won’t stop you.”
“You don’t believe me, do you? All right. Forget running away. Instead of getting in the lorry, I’ll just let it run me over. Do you still want me to go to the madrassa?”
“Yes,” Pops said. “Do it.”
“You don’t care if I die?” I shouted. “Fine! I