To Ustaad Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan
He had been dusting for nearly half-an-hour but it
felt like his whole life. The shop was becoming unbearably warm. Its lemon walls were
beginning to crowd in on him, so that he felt soon he would be crushed beneath their dull,
yellow weight. The air was stifling, dead and yet he seemed to need great gulps of it. He
felt that he would begin to expand like an overfed goldfish and would burst through the
shelves, the plaster, the broken clock. He forced his right hand to continue wiping dust
off the mica counter while with his left, he adjusted the knot of his bandanna. Somewhere
at his back, his parents busied themselves as they always had, all their lives. Busy,
The sounds of running and shouting shifted from the
street in through the open doorway, disturbing the suffocating rhythm of the morning.
Plastic on tarmac. Spittle. The big sky. Sal recognised the voices, and his heart leapt,
then felt empty. As the lads ran past the burning glass, Salman Ishaq allowed the duster
to fall from his hand. He watched it cut a delicate, slightly imperfect trajectory through
the methi air and then ran out of his fathers shop to shrieks of
Haraam zaada! Five minutes work, and hes
done? Hud haraam. Useless bastard!
They did not beckon, entreat or threaten him to come
back; he knew this was because they would not expect him to have listened. He knew, as the
suns heat embraced his ears, burning out the fading, effervescent cries of home that
during the succeeding minutes, hours, years his father would accuse his mother of having
brought defective genes into the family, and his mother would retort to her majaz-i-Khuda,
the life of her heart, that it would not have been possible to pollute the blood of his
people, since their blood had already been dirtier than a Muzaffarabad cesspool. Love
among the peasants was like that, mused Salman Ishaq (or Sal, as he was known
outside of his home and his hundred-strong brathery, though his parents and all of the
aunties remained in total ignorance - blissful, perhaps - of this almost Roman and hence
porcine nickname). He slackened his stride, allowing his long, Reebokd legs to
spring up and down on the quivering asphalt. White on black. Sal was fair-skinned, almost
white - in any other country except Caledonia he wouldve been white, say Italy for
example, or Espana or Portugal, or Greece or
he cursed his luck for ending up in
this country of wallpaper-blond people. He cursed his parents. Fuckin ignorant peasants.
Knew how to milk a coo and shit in the fields (and, he admitted begrudgingly, how tae run
a Carry-out Off-licence), but when it came to knowin where they were at, he chuckled with
a thoroughly blond glee, they didnae have a clue, no a fuckin clue. The group of lads he
was following were also running, though not as fast and so he was able tae cover the
ground rapidly and would soon be up with them. After aw, that wis why he had dropped his
duster in the first place (an in several other places, too) symbol as it wis ae servitude
fuck, he wisnae hovin that, his fellow-gang members seein him mop a fuckin flaer. No way.
In the distance, their bandannas darted up and down, dun specks amid the gleaming bodies
of cars. They were weaving in and out, darting between the moving vehicles, making them
stop altogether at times, and then theyd be up onto the pavement and then back into
the swim of the road. He could hear their shouts and the curses of the motorists, and
began to feel the pulse in his chest grow stronger, impelling him to join them, to orgasm
in vandal with the gang. Some of the drivers were shouting through rolled-down glass,
swearing in Punjabi as well as in English, both at his pals up ahead and now also at him,
too as he began darting in diamond formation, following in the hot tracks of the gang.
Halfway down Albert Drive, he caught up with his comrades, and slapped Ali on the shooder.
Hey, bhen-chaud! Whats up? Ali
shouted in smiles.
They exchanged Bronx palm-slaps while from beneath the
thick waves of August heat, a bass guitar thudded epileptiform rhythms, Bombay Dopplersahb
spirals from an open-topped sportscar.
They started off again, the three of them,
impelled by the insistent thrum of the music in their ears.
As the Gang ran on, the shopkeepers moved in glue,
hardly noticing them as they whooped past. They lived in a different time, another place.
The dhokandaars were strung on the drone of a sarod, they pulsed to the rhythms of a
different beat, a beat of the seasons, of the peasant calendar, of monsoon into dry and
dry into monsoon. They knew nothing of white water, or of white women. They slunk along
the fields of their gaos, happy only to be a little more than serfs. They asked for
nothing else. Would have seen it as presumptuous, in another mans country. Sal felt
a buzz in his brain. He was on the runnin-board, and they were pedestrians.
They reached the end of the street. Ahead lay the
Tramway, a theatre which none of them had ever been in, not even when the Mela had been
there. The Mela wis jis fur kids and cooncillurs. Sal and his dosts preferred machines to
people. They were noisy, irascible, silicon-based like Michael Jackson. Theyd play
the robots for hours, not bothering whether they won or lost, not caring about the game.
Just moving into the beat of chip upon chip, a twitch of the film-star thigh, the hot
shoulder shuffle. They were on the film-set, they were living in total. There were no
spaces in their existence. No gaps of silence. The Gang turned west, away fae the Mosques,
towards Maxwell Park. Thats where they were heidet. To the pond, and the trees. To
muck up the quiet. To fill it wi gouts ae Bhangra and Baissee. They skatit past the
tenement closes, each one a blink in the Gangs eye. The sound of generations carved
into each corniced ceiling. Flip back: Sal, in the gao. Or, to be more accurate, in
Azaad-Kashmir, the Land of Freedom. His familys land, earth-brown like their skins
(not like Sals, though), old blood, like the tenement stone. But Sal was another
kind of Azaadi. Another hybrid. His was a freedom-within-freedom. A distant, grainy
monochrome of greased colonials. Sal, formed between the dots of white and black,
somewhere in the invisible alchemical mix flooding through the paper. Long before his
conception, Sal was there in the deep line of Partition, in the slime cartridge hate of
the one for the other. Peel back the layer, the snakeskin deceptions of Poonch, now in
Occupied Kashmir previously in Dogra-land, before that, a gleam in the eye of the Great
Mughal, and back, beyond the photoframe, through the nastaliq of dynasties, swimming
through the hot sperm of a thousand, to Sikander, Conqueror of the World. Fast-forward:
Sal an The Gang. The Black Bandannas. Black, because it made their faces look whiter.
Italian, almost. Or Spanish, or Portuguese, or anything. As opposed tae the Kinning Park
boys. As opposed tae
and The Rest.
They were all small-time, forming and disbanding from
one year to the next in tenuous hierarchies of slang and spittle. Transient allegiances
like in the Games, the video-shop computer games. Nothing was static. Life was movement,
juddering, twitching, filmi-star movement. Peasant to refugee, refugee to kisaan; emigrant
to immigrant, Paki tae dhokandaar; shopkeeper tae gang-member. Sal slowed to a walking
pace. The swagger of the multitudes. Zafar lit a cigarette, handed the pack roon. Puffin
draws, they got their breath back.
Wherere we gan? Ali asked. Ali wis a
Shia. Less than a human being, according tae the shitfaced cunt in the Bookshop.
The Park, Zafar replied, brusquely.
Ali curled his lip.
The Parks borin. Ah dinnae want tae go
You shut the fuck up, arsehole.
Ali shut up. He knew his place in the Gang, and that
was as its arsehole. Zafar was its head, its brains, its brigadier (unlike Pakistan, the
gangs did not have more brigadiers than sergeants).
Whatll we do there? In the Park. Sal
asked, measuring his words, levelling them down into the shape of an unobtrusive
Sit, smoke, watch the burds. Tear the trees
Tear the trees? What the fuck for?
Why the fuck, not?
Sal shrugged. Zafar was a line ae crack on black.
Clear-cut and paagal. Sal wished he could be like that. As they walked along Darnley
Street, Sal spotted a group of girls approaching from the opposite direction. They were
growing like breasts, and he recognised wan ae his cousins amongst them and began tae hurl
abuse as soon as he thought they might be within earshot. Not before. There was nothin
more embarrassin than swearin at someone, and they couldnae fuckin hear you. The girls did
hear it, and flung it right back, and the interchange continued as the two groups passed
each other as though through a mirror and moved gradually out of earshot again. She had
long, black hair, his cousin and he watched her swing it as she swore. Swung it around
legs which he had never seen, but which he had often imagined as long, sinuous, soft,
Fuckin bitch. He watched her as she disappeared around the corner. An
imprint on his eyelids, and an ache in his groin. He blinked, and she was gone. But not
the ache. The swollen throbbing expanded like Pakistan from the plane, and became a
marriage ceremony. A man-in-a-mask, the elephants vision. A bride, weeping tears
through a waranteed hymen.
He blinked, hard. Blood scarlet.
Ali jabbed him in the ribs. Raised his thick, black
No way. No fuckin way, man.
Ali shook his head, his lop-sided, peasants
When the time comes
Itll nivir come.
Nae mair white burds, wi thur wide open cunts
askin fur it, a glais ae vodka an their yours, nae matter how black ya are. Jis feed them
enough booze an dope, an theyll screw you and thank you fur it.
At least ah get them.
That shut him up. Ali. Him, wi his big bug-eyes. Too
big. They saw too much. Theyd get him intae trouble, wan ae these days. Parso,
theyd fuck him up, doon an sideeways. He remembered a thin white cow hed
screwed last month. The feel ae her anorexic thigh-joins. Bone on bone. Jag-mairks.
Theyd huv tae be stoned tae fuck a Paki. And then, only fur blue-backs. He began tae
harden. Hated himsel. Puffed on his ciggie. It had gan oot.
Goa match? he asked Zafar.
Zafar didnt answer.
Silent bastart, thought Sal and he flung the ciggie
doon, killin its corpse wi a stroke ae his trainer.
Youll smoke your life away
his mother had said. So many fuckin times. Like,
they nivir said onyhin original, like there wis nuhin new in them. Nivir hud been. Jis
work, work an work, like it wis the only thing in life. Kaam, kaam, kaam. Fuckin peasants.
He wisnae in that trap. Gangstas were ootside ae aw that crap. They were on the border.
Alang the silent razor. Between the dots. Sepia, again. Short-haired men with wives.
Babies, dead- already. Visions of the past, of past lives. A long, Hindu cacophony. Sal
laughed, inside of himself. He would never be born as a shopkeeper. Better, a dog. At
least you got tae fuck freely. Or a mullah. Just sit in the mosque, and take money.
Blue-backs. Grow a beard and never, ever smile. An easy job, really. One day, maybe. An
image of a large bonfire. The Gangs, all throwing their bandannas into the flames. Black,
red, blue. Even the Kinning Park Boys. All sprouting long, gray beards and adopting a
bow-legged walk. The bonfire spread, and burned away the image.
And whats behind it?
Sal the Gangsta asked Salman Ishaq Sahb the
Wagging his well-muscled finger, Ishaq Sahb gave the
Behind every image, there is always a jagirdaar.
Just as (he went on) in every Coca-Cola tin there is a naked Amrikan slut, her legs
overhanging the metal
OK, OK Sal the Gangsta cut in, a little
embarrassed, but what aboot ma Irn Bru tin?
The Mullah did not understand. In England, all
tins were the same, he intimated. Just being a tin, was enough. More than enough. Just
thinking about a can might even be sufficient.
But how could he know, Sal thought, unless he too, had
been there, into the metal, between the jag-scarred thighs of the slut and had swum around
(beard, frown-and-all) in the great fizzy vacuum of the West. Of Amrika, of Glasgee. The
mullahs were all Amrikan agents. See-Eye-Aye. Everyone knew that. Even his father knew
that, fur fucks sake.
Now they were passin the Safeway, an there the pretty
cars aw rowd up like obedient schoolkids. Only they werent learnin onyhin. The
Great White Superstores, stolid bastions thrown in a ring aroon the city. His father often
railed against the toilet-friendly conglomerates, saying that theyd milk the small
shopkeeper dry. And what did loag want, Khuda-ke liye, a local, living-room sized
dhokaan with you know a friendly face, or a giant metal aircraft hanger? What wus the
future for our people in this country? He sounded like a guardian of the tiny units of
commerce which Bonaparte had faced, ranged in bared teeth shopfronts along the white,
Doverine cliffs of Albert Drive. And they were the new Napoleons, the massive brick
battleships, the Safeways, the Sainsburys, the ASDAS besieging Glasgee, attacking Scola,
runnin thur damned South American produce right intae the khanas of his ane bratherie.
Apples ae Shaitan. The Gang chased past the trees of knowledge which burgeoned in the
spacey grounds of the Hutchesons Grammar Schule, the in-vitro incubator of budding
intellectuals. Where any parents who needed their kids as fuel for the already bulging
middle classes that stuck society together sent their offspring. So many went there, and
fucked up. Cause theyd rather rave, than save. Salman had never aspired to a
hood-and-gown. Maybe it was his parents fault. Their lack of ambition. Theyd
rather he work in the shop. But then wasnt everything their fault? Comin here in the
first place. Runnin a fuckin Paki-shop. That wis what they were seen as. Couldve
worn top hats an tails, an owned hauf the city, an theyd still have been Pakis. He
hated it. Never, never wanted to be a shopkeeper. Had missed out on learnin. Jis wanted
tae be in a Gang, an tae shout. Tae scream in blood and bhangra.
The harsh, Jullundri consonants cut his flesh in
slashes of kirpaan; it felt good; upon their blade would his skin grow calloused, hard.
Nothing would hurt him. No words. No actions. Sticks and stones would shatter on his body.
And still, he would sing-dance the juddering figure beat, the blood music of exile. The
black slaves had bled in blue: R n R, hip-hop, reggae; and now the sons of
Swastika-daubed Paki-shop owners would disembowel the air in syncopation. Together, with
night torches, they would fire the Swastikas and in the fractured air, would spin them
round in great wheels up and down the streets of Glasgow. And they would feed the
skinheads of Ibrox, the white trash tattoo of Penilee into the great, burning cunt of Mata
Kali where five thousand firewheels spun time. Hindu symbols - yes! His parents would have
been mortified to hear him thinking that way. But fuck it. They couldnae hear him
thinking, no ony mair. It wis aw mixed up, onyway. Sikh Bhangra, Mussalmaan Qawal, Hindu
Black Blues, it all swirled together and spumed into a river of
Techno-Rave Brummie Beat. And the Gang would rubber-dance in the Victorian park among the
trees, the ducks, the water, the shouts of children. Amidst the summer leaves, they would
make music, and war.
They leapt over the jagged fence and into the Park.
The smell of grass, cut skin-short. Roses like the lips of courtesans, drawing out the sex
act into a stream of notes.
Meri naam Jaan-ki-bai hai
Meri naam Gauhar Jaan
They half-ran down an incline and tumbled together
in a heap near the bottom. Mothers were pushing prams, the wheels of which always seemed
to go uphill. Children played with small boats and old folk simply sat in lines on
benches, as though waiting their turn. Salman closed his eyes. Goldfish noises
He felt a fist in his belly, enough to provoke but not
to seriously wind him. He turned, and caught another on the jaw. His head buzzed as he
threw his arms outward to grapple with his opponent. Got a hold of his waist, and didnae
let go. Salman and Zafar wrestled on the grass, rolling and screaming. Ali leapt in, and
his extra weight had the effect of pressing down on Salmans chest so that he
wasnt able to move, and could hardly breathe. Was not able to say, Enoughs
enough, lads. Get aff noo. Wasny sure they wouldve listened, anyway. The
sun was streaming into his eyes and he could feel its golden brilliance flood through the
coils of his brain. He could hear time run backwards through the veins of trees, moving
always anti-clockwise in a broad tape-loop
Meri awaz suno, mujhe azad karo
Chunnae ud ud jae, guth kul kul jae
Death is not dying
Achintya bheda bheda Tattva
Kinna Sohna tainu, Rub nay banaya
And Salman Ishaq was
floating, downstream, in tears of noor.
Inhale Allah Exhale Hu
Inhale Allah Exhale Hu
Inhale Allah Exhale Hu
He realised he was able to breathe again. His neck
felt stiff. They had got off his chest and were lying, breathless, beside him. They were
basking in the suns warmth (this too, wouldve been unthinkable), half-watching
the delicate slivers of light pour down on the park. They had noticed nothing. Would not
have cared. They were true Gangstas. For a moment, he felt a rush of pride in being a part
of the Black Bandannas - soon, he too, would be capable of feeling nothing - but it passed
and left him empty. He looked away from them and just lay there, letting the backs of his
fingers rest upon the short, fine blades of grass. The sun filled his eyes, making them
sting and water but he did not allow the lids to close. He began to grow blind and it
occurred to him that one day, not too far in the future, it would be his fingers that
would be pushing up the grass and that what he thought, felt, did, created during that
minuscule pause in his fate might live beyond him, his family, the tribe to which he
happened to belong and that the only constant in the whole of Maxwell Park - the trees,
the birds, the water, the kids - the only beat that pumped all other rhythms, was the beat
of love. Salman took a deep breath, the deepest hed ever taken, it filled parts of
his lungs which had never before breathed, not even at the moment of his birth. He felt a
great swell of happiness explode infinitely slowly from the centre of his being. His love
spread across the grass, the trees, the trunks of dead elephants and returned to him
And in the end,
When the musics over
There is only love
The drone behind it all was the note, c,
right there in the soul of his brain. He felt its smooth curves, the walls of a tunnel on
the way to heaven. And there it was, in the very coils of paradise. He followed a bird as
it coursed along the sky. He sat up. Ripping off his bandanna, he ran his fingers through
his long hair. Felt free. Wanted to leap into the pond, and swim. Desired the cool, green
gown of its depth. From far across the city, Salman heard the Azaan, carried upriver on
currents of music. Rolling his bandanna out onto the grass, he faced towards Gorbals Cross
and began to pray.
useless person (literally, bad bones)
big Punjabi landowner
city in (Indian) Punjab
for Gods sake!
the day after tomorrow