Preface
	This was inspired by post-colonial theory amongst other
things. It explores essentialist depictions of the "other",
mimicry, overlapping cultures, negotiations in the borders,
state and media projections, partial and incomplete
understandings, misunderstandings, subalternality, inaccessible
experiences, illusions, the personal imagination, introspection
from without. And love.

 

 


                            The Truth


	"This is what I think of the truth!" he hissed, his foot
crushing the can under thick Timberland soles.  A few mouthfuls
of beer spurted onto the outstretched saber of a Mogul
horseman that rode against furry others.  The carpet had been a
graduation present from Nana.  I had been with him the day he
counted out money for it: greasing his finger tips with saliva,
he almost emptied the Regent's Street cookie tin that he kept
hidden under the bed.  He mailed the cash inside a letter
carrying instructions for a cousin in Pakistan.  A reciprocating
package came two months later and Nana was delighted with its
contents.  He insisted that the carpet was made in Persia,
refusing to accept that the country existed no longer with a
certainty that came from the observation that their tradition of
carpet weaving had not died with changing names and shifting
borders.  Nana said this particular one had easily more than 600
knots per square inch; that it was made by real hands that
ranged in age from eight to fourteen, the only fingers small and
dexterous enough to weave between the thread of space required
for the yarn.  Though one could contest its national origins,
what was evident was the quality - the silkiness of the fiber as
it found its way into the smallest spaces between scrunched
toes; the glitter of detail on the horse�s bridle as it rode to
war.  Thank God Mummy wasn�t here to see the beer stain.  She
would have been furious, and a little hurt. Nana had truly loved 
him.
	"That�s what the truth means to me.  Something I step
on, walk over everyday.  It means less than dirt to me.  Less
than shit!"
	But as I looked at him, standing above me with his right
arm theatrically pointing to the carpet, I noticed a tremble in
his knees.  It didn�t seem alcohol or drug induced.  It was more
the kind of shiver you couldn�t just stretch away, or jerk or
snap out.  A tremor that betrayed a pain in the very core of the
bones; something that came out of deep uncertainty; out of a
constant repositioning of oneself in an unpredictable and
changing world. 
	"Can you understand what I mean?  That there�s no truth
as they talk about it.  Nothing, hot air!"  He looked at me
suddenly, his eyes focusing into dark rims.  He must have sensed 
what I had been noticing, for he allowed himself to fall back onto
the chair.  Jaws clenched, he rubbed his palms together.
	I was getting tired of Russell and the emotional states 
he worked up these days.  I had prompted this particular outburst
by trying to convince him to spend more time in our family restaurants, 
by hinting that maybe his art gallery plans weren't going to work.
	He got up again.  "Let me tell you what I think the
truth is.  Last week, I was at Tandoori dropping off some stuff;
new table cloths; towels, I met this woman called Laila.  It was
only five o'clock and the others were in the back, so I took her
order.  She was alone and I talked to her for a while.  She was
amazing, she laughed and talked and smiled at the same time. 
She ordered tikka and romali roti.  Hear that, romali roti."
	He stopped, grinning now, his fingers pulled at the
velvet hairs of the red couch.  "She told me she was a student
in King�s medical program.  Her parents live in Birmingham; her
father owns minicabs.  Bilquis, she was so unbelievable.  She
told me that she had heard about the restaurant from drivers,
and knew the food must be good.  You know how many of our
customers have stopped coming to us; how they hide who they are
in tiffin boxes and cellophane sandwiches.  And she had actually
come looking for us.
	I was half in love with her already.  But then, and I
don�t even remember how it came up, she said something about her
father and Lahore, and it struck me she was Pakistani.  I guess
the fact that she was just such a beautiful human being had kept
me from seeing who she was as drawn by a line; by people sitting
at some board somewhere.  And I knew the only thing I could do,
as a Bangali, was walk away; not think of getting to know her. 
As a woman.  As a person!  And so I did.  Do you have any idea
what shit that made me feel like?  Just because of who she is
and who I am.  And that even if everybody and everything
disappeared and we were the happiest couple in the world; maybe
one day, some terrible day, I would use the word �Paki� in
anger.  And she would know that we had never stepped outside who
we are; who they tell us we need to be."
	I shook my head fiercely, throwing the words and
thoughts that rushed to me, off balance; off center.
	"And that's the truth; the kind you can feel right
here.  He struck his chest.  The rest is bullshit.
	You don�t understand, do you?  You've never understood
my prattling.  For you everything�s fits perfectly...like a well
played game of Tetris, blocks falling exactly in place.  No
space for uneven edges, or rough surfaces.  You�re the perfect
girl, right, twenty-two and no interest in men.  Innocent
Bilquis.  No drugs, no hard liquor, huh?  But no more innocence
for you Bilqi.  You know why?"
	He laughed a thirteen-year old laugh; one that he had
never lost.  "Because I slipped a tab of LSD into your Bailey's
Irish Cream.  Pure, unadulterated acid."
	"What?"  My mouth opened in wide astonishment.
	"Come on Bilqi, it'll be fun.  Just go with it, I
promise you'll have a blast."
	"What!  You put LSD in my drink!  Why Russell?  You know
I've never...why the hell would you..."
	"Arre bap, don't be so uptight.  We're going out anyway;
you'll have a better time."
	Partly indignant; mostly too stunned to know what to
make of it, I realized that it was pointless to be angry.  Maybe
I should induce vomitting?  Ughh!  Russell had never really
learned to recognize seriousness in others.  There was also no
way of telling what he was thinking; his mind had long since
crossed the line between our reality and the world he
inhabits.  It was easy to tell that my brother wasn't completely
with us from the white stretches around his pupils; the way he
would cock his head as if to listen for voices and sounds far
beyond our reach.  I wondered if his world had special colors
too, like his pictures did things move differently?  Maybe he
had sensed this curiosity in me; sensed the fact that I didn't
really hate his feel-good drugs; but that I had just never
thought enough of them to want to try.  But none of that
mattered now.
	"Just relax and have a good time Bilqi!  Don't be
stubborn."
	I wasn't prepared to let him off that easily.  But I
knew that I should try to enjoy myself or I�d have a
bad �buzz�.  "Russell, I really don't know what to say� I mean
you�ve made the choice for me, I'll just have to go along with
it."
	"All right!"  The smile stayed on his face this time.



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