Dilshad

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The ogre devoured the sheikh and his son, and I awoke from my laughter. Time had changed, and I was no longer the Dilshad I once was.

I recall that day, and I saw an Indian soldier in shorts standing in front of me, ordering me to stand and asking me who I was. I told him: My name is Dilshad and I am from Muscat, and the ghoul swallowed my sheikh and his son. But he did not understand me, even though I spoke in Urdu, which I had learned in the Muscat market. He led me ahead of him to the police station, and there, hands and feet turned me over very violently. I wanted to scream at the shoes and hats, but my laughter preceded my scream, so they became more agitated, and the force of their blows increased. Then suddenly they stopped and threw me back into the street, without anyone asking me anything, or even pointing an accusing finger at my face, as if all they needed from me was to practice kicking and slapping.

I dragged my body and walked through the alleys and lanes of Mumbai. People’s eyes turned to my torn dishdasha and my limping gait. The eyes did not linger, but settled briefly and then melted away, quickly overlooking my weakness and misery, and going somewhere else.