A postman in a Pakistani border town hides his Jewish identity, but the self-aggrandising son of the general is determined to stir up trouble.
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| Image generated with OpenAI |
That morning, my sleepy border village was up in arms. My neighbors, friends, acquaintances had blocked off the dusty main road that led to my workplace, the Pakistan Post Office.
“Down with India, down with Israel,” they howled at the cinnamon sun, like the skinny hyenas that often stole our chickens.
My heart sank every time I heard the name Israel. As the lone Jew for hundreds of miles, an endangered species in Pakistan, there always hung above me the anvil of mad-eyed vengeance should someone discover my true identity.
That somebody would realize my birth name was Fischel, and not Faisal.
This lived-in suspicion stung sometimes. As patriotic as I was, and a staunch supporter of Palestine – not to overlook that my father served in the 1971 war – there was little doubt they’d label me a pariah if ever the opportunity presented itself. After all, we’d done the same to the Afghans.
The timing of their outrage couldn’t have been worse. My electricity bill was of an amount that suggested I powered a miniature nuclear plant and not an unpainted single-storey house of two rooms. The power company had threatened to sever my connection if I didn’t pay, and having it reinstated would require divine intercession.
My neighbor, a helpful man with a bushy burned-orange beard and three wives, had advised that I too “hook a line” so I wouldn’t have to pay a dime. I thanked him for his concern and said no. His god may forgive him, but mine had a long history of flattening the earth when scorned.
Of course, I’d woken up earlier than usual to contest the charge before resuming my duties as the village postman, but now the protestors were walling my way.
The speed of my tall, gaunt bicycle slowed as I approached them wearing a perplexed look. They all had their backs to me and continued their frenzied chanting.
Years ago, my youngest maternal uncle had warned me, before packing his bags and shipping off to the Holy Land, that it wouldn’t be long before those I knew since childhood turned on me, but I’d ignored him.
Perhaps I’d always been lazy; perhaps it was the thought that an alien land could never be my own. When the fruits of this soil had fed us, then why should we go steal another’s? How anyone considered that kosher was beyond me.
There was also the small matter of completing my assignment. I couldn’t just pick up sticks and move along unless ordered. My pension depended on my usefulness to the company.
The morning air weighed a ton with faint trails of rocket fuel and smoldering concrete. The protesters had gathered on the forever shit-stained, unpaved road between hunched-over terraced shops with peeling paint and rusty shutters. Some shops had holes in the roof and no walls from India’s overnight shelling.
My steel-blue work shalwar kameez was thankfully free of mud. I pushed down on my cobalt-blue baseball cap to hide the kippah placed over my graying hair. Then I wiped my chunky spectacles with the hem of my kameez and said a brief prayer of deliverance.
I pulled my bicycle up on its stand near the throng – parking it on a sidewalk that melted into the road, beside a wooden stall with wheels that sold sweetmeats and coconut flakes.
The protesters represented every walk of life. The hearty milkman was there with the crooked cobbler, and the scruffy newsboy was gabbing with the deaf laundryman. Then I saw what stood past them, and it just about turned me to ashes.
Planted smack in the middle of the road was a terrifying signpost. Its steel pipe was dug deep into the earth, its wooden face scabbed and gnarly like the bark of a thousand-year tree.
“Welcome to New Judea,” it said in Urdu. Above the words was a crude illustration of a six-pointed star sketched with white paint.
I gasped. Who could’ve done such a thing? Then a more disturbing thought hit me. Yikes, a witch hunt was nigh. Was I in danger?
A shrill voice to my left shattered my gloomy thoughts.
“The Yehud-o-Nasara and the Hindus are working together to erase us Muslims. But I, Joji, the only son of the general, swear they will never succeed. Tell my viewers, brothers, Pakistan ka matlab kya? What does Pakistan mean?”
“La ilaha illa Allah,” the crowd roared, with some jabbing their guns at the sky.
I blinked in disbelief. What the… that kid? He was the one whipping up this hysteria?
Square of face, he couldn’t have hit puberty more than half a decade ago. His slick clothes were a size too big or too small, and his aviator shades shimmered like the vivid blue flames under a mutton curry seller’s wok.
His ears bore loopy earrings, and his cropped hair curled at the top like the crest of a crashing wave. He held a long selfie-stick attached to a fancy cell phone, which he pushed and panned to film the crowd.
I licked my dry lips and took a step backward to avoid his gaze. This big-city yuppie was bad news, possibly more dangerous than the police. Should I slink away right now? Would that arouse suspicion? Who was responsible for the sign anyhow? And why now? Ugh, but there remained the life-and-death matter of contesting that obscene electricity bill.
Hmm, the pear of a man standing two men away looked familiar, or at least his violent outbreak of acne did. He wore the pastel tan colors of the power company, and he nodded along vigorously to the kid’s hateful nonsense.
I inched toward him sideways like a crab, pulling my cap deeper over my face, until our shoulders bumped.
“Paa-ji,” I whispered. “Brother, I meant to talk to you about my bill. When will you go to the office?”
He eyed me with great disdain, wrinkling his pug nose so far up that the nest of hair inside his nostrils stuck out like thorns.
“Kya karte ho yaar?” he said in a hiss. “What are you doing? This is a national emergency, and you’re worried about your bill?”
“But -“
“Oye,” someone shouted.
The strange kid named Joji was giving us the death stare. Then, he fixed his gaze on the crowd. “If we don’t find the person responsible for this,” he motioned at the signpost, “tomorrow all of you could be buried under mountains of rubble like the Palestinians. Is that what you want?”
“No,” the crowd shouted back.
“Right now, only about a hundred people are watching my livestream, and among them, just a few are foreigners,” Joji continued with a serious face. “That’s pathetic. If we want the world to know we stand united against the Jews, then we must up the drama. Make more money for me.”
Huh? Did I hear him wrong?
Joji had paused mid-tirade. He pressed his fist against his lips and cleared his throat for what seemed like forever.
The onlookers had fallen into an awkward silence. Some were giving him the side-eye and muttering among themselves.
Suddenly, he lunged at the sign and slapped its wooden face. “Are you with me? Down with the Yehud and Hindus.”
They swiftly raised a raucous cheer, and I shook my head. No wonder it was so easy to impose martial law on these people. They were like goldfish inflated to the size of men.
But their cheers soon faded when another character approached from the opposite direction – a lone portly figure garbed in an olive-green uniform, his beret rolled up under his shoulder strap like a stale naan flatbread. Teefa, the village constable.
I’d never known the man to keep his shirt clean, and true to form, there were drips of dried curry staining his right breast pocket. We knew him as an honest buffoon – a man who believed in a brand of justice that wouldn’t pry him away from his many mealtimes.
He eyed us and Joji suspiciously. “Whass happening here?” he asked in the mealy-mouthed slur of someone who had been busy breakfasting.
My lips formed a weak smile. Ah, at last the stout arm of the law had arrived. He’d restore some sense to these idiots.
Alas, my elation was short-lived. Soon his sharp gaze found the signpost, and his eyes grew to the size of raw eggs.
“Kya bakwas hai. What is this nonsense?” he asked in a higher voice, scanning the crowd with quick flicks of his fat neck.
Joji answered with a snort. “You thulas are all the same. Completely clueless about what’s going on around you.” Then he trained his cellphone at the constable. “How did this sign end up here, huh? What are you going to do about it, constable sahib?”
Teefa blinked in silence for a few seconds, and then he winced. “Turn that off, oye,” he said with a beefy swipe of his arm. “This is a crime scene.”
“Not a chance, sir-jee. You can’t arrest me, and you know why,” said Joji, smirking. He showed Teefa something on his phone screen that turned the constable’s face a pus-filled red.
Teefa ran his hand through his sweaty hair and gave a heavy sigh. “None of you can leave here until we sort this out,” he said in a meeker tone. “Or until the enemy starts lobbing shells again. Understood?”
My gut was churning with dread. I took off my spectacles and wiped their glass in obsessive circles. Calm down, Fischel, calm down. There was nothing tying you to the signpost. Also, the only person with access to your religion was the slimy guy from the national database office. You’d never slighted him, so why would he rat on you?
Teefa was on his radio, likely calling for reinforcements. Joji was standing to one side, beaming, swiping up and down on his cell phone screen. His phone kept pinging, and sometimes it emitted a ka-ching sound like coins clattering on a countertop. Many in the crowd were just idling about, waiting for the next crescendo in this farce.
Shortly after, two of the constable’s slow-moving stooges arrived on the scene. They conferred with their boss and began barking orders, corralling us into a tighter group. By then the crowd had swelled considerably – the street vendors, truant kids, gossiping women, career beggars were all abuzz with opinions about the culprit.
Truth was, we Pakistanis had nothing of greater import in our lives than witnessing pointless spectacles. That’s why news channels did a roaring trade, and why we’d sooner drown in floods than build more dams.
Teefa was tapping the sign to a slow beat. “This,” he said in his official voice, “is the work of someone who wishes to sow discord in the community. Who found this, eh?”
A murmur moved through my fellow suspects until some were looking over their shoulders. Then a short, wiry man with a droopy mustache and a generous overbite shuffled forward.
Hmm, the lone Christian grocer in the village. Why did I remember him being taller? Did he have a twin or a lookalike roaming around somewhere?
The man slowly raised his hand. “Me, janab. Jeera Masih.”
Teefa gave him the procedural once-over. “Are you an Indian RAW agent?”
“Huh? No janab!”
“Mossad?”
“Mos-aa? Is that a type of halvah?”
The audience brayed with laughter, which did little for Teefa’s foul mood.
“Silence. You think this is a joke?” he said, scowling. “If we don’t solve this quickly, military intelligence will get here. Then you’ll need written permission even to take a shit.”
Joji frowned. “No, no, no,” he said, dismissing Teefa’s warning with a curt wave. “You’re all killing me here. We need more drama than this snoozefest.”
“Suspecting the masih is so last century, man,” he continued, toying with his earring and staring into space. “Now, if only we had a Jew. That would be very profitable – I mean, interesting.”
I curbed the urge to dash, even as my feet dragged back on their own. No, Faisal. Do nothing in haste. There is no way he could have known. Even if the database guy were so inclined, it would take him quite some time to search through the records, so abysmal was our internet near the border.
Jeera Masih raised his hand again. Hey, did he just give me the side-eye?
Joji pursed his lips in annoyance. “What now? Don’t you have to sweep streets or something?”
The crowd cackled, and I cringed. Such slurs were commonplace, and yet they always left a foul taste in my mouth. How strange that Pakistanis had derogatory names for all people not born Muslims, and yet took great offense when the outside world treated them the same.
An insistent cawing started overhead. A magpie was perched on the electricity pylon, perhaps readying itself to share last night’s dinner with someone’s head.
I gave a shudder and stepped aside. One of its kind had nearly pecked my eyes out when I was a toddler. It had screeched around the house for ages until my mother swatted it out the window with her sandal.
So what if I’d been toying with a dead chick on the veranda floor? How would I have known any better at that age? That fear alone drove me to wear thick glasses for life.
Jeera had crossed his arms and struck a defiant pose. “Fine. I wanted to tell you about the Jew, but now you can all go to hell.”
Huh?
Time had suddenly slowed to a crawl. The crowd was gawking at him in silence.
The deep sense of dread that had somewhat loosened its grip on my bowels returned with a vengeance. Dammit. It couldn’t be. He couldn’t know…
Joji was beaming like the devil as he patted Jeera’s shoulder. “Nahin yaar. Don’t be like that. You’re a credit to this community.”
He produced a five-thousand rupee note and slipped it into Jeera’s side pocket. “You were saying?”
Jeera’s displeasure melted away, and he showed a satisfied grin. Then his finger shot up in my direction. “The dakiya. The postman is a Jew!”
The crowd gasped and stared from me to Jeera, who was grinning. My uncle’s warning now pricked my soul like a bouquet of thorns. Son of a… I should run.
Teefa sprang at me and grabbed my collar. “Is this true? Is it? Is it?” he asked, shaking me with his meaty paws.
“H-he’s a lunatic, sir-jee. How c-could I be a Jew?” I said in a hoarse voice. “Why would any Jew live in Pakistan?”
Joji’s gaze fixed on me during the exchange, his foot tapping on the tarmac. “Why do you say he’s a Jew?” he asked Jeera.
“My bahnoi told me, janab. Brother-in-law works for the national database office.”
Beads of sweat started on my forehead. Goddammit, that sister-lover was the lookalike. What rotten, rotten luck.
“Nonsense,” I shouted, freeing myself from Teefa’s grip. “They say the same thing about Imran Khan. How can you believe this drunkard of all people?”
Jeera grimaced at my words. “It’s true,” he said, shaking his fist in my direction. “This man is an enemy. He’s a lot worse than I am.”
The crowd was still stunned by the sudden turn of events. Some were scratching their chins, others their armpits or groins.
They hadn’t brought out a noose yet or brandished their firearms, which was heartening. But there wasn’t much time, I decided, pushing down on my cap and wiping my clammy brow.
I stepped forward and paused for effect, looking around the crowd with disappointed eyes. Then I tugged at the Pakistan Post emblem on my breast and spoke in a voice crackling with passion:
“How could a public servant be a Jew, huh? I’ve been among you for so many years. Some of you even knew my family. Did I not bleed when you bled? Have I not shared in your joys and sorrows?”
Joji showed a wry smile while the others kept silent, almost lost in thought.
Teefa, however, kept his stony look. “Nice speech. Do you have a passport?”
“Umm, no,” I answered.
He turned to the crowd. “Has anyone ever seen this man praying in the mosque?”
They held their silence. Some looked away and whistled.
Teefa touched his forehead and groaned. “Seriously? Not one? How can you call yourselves Muslims without going for prayers?”
Joji suddenly snapped his fingers. His face had brightened, which couldn’t bode well for me. “Make him recite the kalimah. That’s the best proof.”
Teefa nodded, and the onlookers buzzed with approval.
I sighed and closed my eyes. Thanked my ancestors for making sure we could keep the charade going forever. Forgive me, Yahweh, for I do not wish to catch fire.
The key to this act was being solemn in the moment and later fasting for three days as penance. My people had done so for millennia. We were, after all, career persecutees.
I made a sour face and set my hands on my hips. “Fine. But I’m done here after that. You’ve insulted me long enough, okay?”
They didn’t counter, whereupon I cleared my throat and checked my glasses. “La Ilaha Illallah Muhammadur Rasulullah,” I recited thrice without flinching and in the most respectful cadence I could muster.
They chorused the kalimah with me, their faces briefly shining with the light of faith, which disappeared the instant it ended.
It was such a shame their fear of judgement in the hereafter was limited to when they recited the holy verses. They were okay with hell on earth so long as they found some version of paradise in the next.
I blew out a deep breath. “Now, I’m off.”
I turned around and started ambling towards my bicycle. The hushed crowd parted in layers to give way.
Well, Fischel, best to stow your kippa away for a few days until things cooled, I thought. No sense tempting fate again.
A shrill cawing.
Then the wicked flapping of wings, fast approaching.
A tingling started in my chest. Uh-oh. Something was swooping toward me.
That black-faced, white-bellied fiend. It was nearly at my face, its glassy eyes glowing fire and brimstone.
“Ugh.” I swerved in time, but lost my footing and fell backward.
My palm struck the brim of my work cap, knocking it clean off my head.
Then my tortoiseshell kippah. It slid off the instant I fell on the pavement, rolling around like a tin plate before settling flat.
The magpie’s stabs had cracked my glasses. My limbs were atremble, my mouth dry as a summer well in Sindh. Goddammit.
The day I feared had come. The fiend had avenged its species, and it had chosen the time of my beheading. Argh, the stupid mother-lover.
Joji’s mouth was wide open, his finger frozen in my direction.
The crowd closed in on me, bearing the wild eyes of the barreled boars that nightly commuted through our unmarked streets.
Their gazes darted from me to the kippah and back. They’d seen enough of Palestine on TV to know its purpose. Somewhere in the crowd, a pistol’s safety catch clicked.
I hung my head and cursed fate. There was no getting out of this. Would the company remember my sacrifice?
Jeera was beside himself with joy. He burst into the bhangra dance, shrieking, “Told you so, told you so.”
Teefa shoved his way to my side. Then he held out his arms. “No, we cannot cause him harm, fools.”
Joji shot him an incredulous look. “What? Why?”
“If word gets out we had a Jew living here for so long without our knowledge,” he said, panting, “the army will turn this village into a big ball of barbed wires. What to say of the laughing stock we will -“
Joji made a pensive face.
“Astaghrifullah. So?” said a man with a bushy, burned-orange beard. “We can just make him disappear.”
I glared at him, gritting my teeth. My crooked, treacherous neighbor. So much for all the money I lent him when one of his bazillion kids got sick.
Joji chuckled and slapped his thigh. “This is not the 18th century, molvi-jee. You can’t hide stuff from people like me.”
Okay, Fischel. One last stab at sanity. Time to bring out your inner Daniel.
I sat up on my elbows. “B-but I didn’t p-put up the sign.”
They responded with confused looks. Unbelievable. Everyone had forgotten about the infernal signpost that set off the commotion.
Joji walked up to me and sat on his haunches. “Too late for that, my friend. What was Pakistan Post thinking?”
Blood rushed to my face in anger. “That I’m a law-abiding citizen, that’s what!”
Joji answered with a blank look. “What good has that ever done anyone?”
Teefa, his lips puckered, was staring at his feet.
I retrieved my kippah and cap and rose to my feet. “This is my village too, you know. I had nothing to do with the sign.”
Joji grinned and tapped his temple. “Let’s see, a Jew who can recite the kalimah and blends in perfectly. What would you think if you were me?”
Teefa scrubbed his hands over his face. “This hasn’t been your village for over 50 years. Not even your country, to be honest. It’s time to go.”
I had nothing more to say, nor would saying anything have helped my cause. A public lynching I’d been spared, maybe, but there was now a big hole in my heart. They’d all forgotten about my family, about our life here…
The crowd was unimpressed with Teefa’s appeal. The decibels of their angst were rising.
“We’re getting shelled here every day because of his people, and you’re letting him go? Are you crazy?” spat an old crone wearing a Mickey Mouse beanie.
Joji tsk-tsked at the woman. “Have you forgotten how the Holy Prophet treated his enemies after the conquest of Mecca? Or do you think you’re better than him?”
He shook his head disapprovingly. “Now, imagine how many more Muslims we’d have today if I’d recorded that moment and shared it with the world. What a waste.”
That shut them up swiftly, and soon they began to scatter. They dared not argue further for fear of divine retribution.
Teefa and Joji were deep in animated conversation. I caught the words “expose” and “promotion,” and tuned them out.
Nothing good would come from sticking around. Their warped sense of charity could turn on a dime and usher in my end.
The magpie alighted on my head and patted my hair.
It was finally time, Fischel. Time to head home and unlock the small metal box with my name on it that was locked inside two others, like nesting dolls, and call the phone number therein.
The number that uncle left for me in case I wished to get transferred. Wonder where the company would send me next.
