ASYLUM

Chapter 1

“Khalid!”

Mum calls. From the kitchen. She is always calling. From the kitchen. Khalid eat this! Khalid drink this! Khalid bring your plate here! Don’t think I am going to walk all over the house looking for your plate! And it’s always Khalid, never Aisha. I swear if Aisha wasn’t a girl she would have been calling her constantly too. And they say Muslims oppress women.

“Khalid!” She is calling again, and in Dari mind you. Mum has been in Melbourne ten years now, two years less than Dad who first came to Australia all on his own. I have never heard her speak English. Well, except this one time when we went to this pharmacy to get some ointment for a rash Aisha was having. Mum was at the counter, carrying Aisha who didn’t have to be carried in the first place. She was old enough to walk, especially the few hundred meters to the pharmacy. But Mum still carried her, the big baby. I am sure if Aisha was not almost as tall as me, Mum would be still carrying her. That’s how privileged I reckon she is. But, to come back to the story, Mum gives the prescript to the woman at the counter and this rude bitch shows it to her colleague standing next to her and says loudly, no wonder they get rashes when covered in that thing. “That thing” of course is the cloak she’s wearing and the niqab over her mouth. She didn’t even care if we heard. And the other cow giggles like her friend has just tickled her bum or something. They didn’t think Mum understood; stupid Muslim woman deprived of freedom and education, they must have thought. But Mum was so angry she told her what she thought, which was not much but quite shocking to the two girls that is. “If you rude like that,” She hissed, in English. “I give you real rash you silly girl!” The two girls looked as if they had just been a kicked by a woman they had thought was a cow. That’s when I knew Mum could speak English. It was not very good English I admit, but good enough to put two rude girls in their place. We had no problems with the prescription after that even though that was the last time we went anywhere near that pharmacy.

When I told Dad he laughed and said, your mother’s English is better than mine, which is not true. Dad speaks better English than Mum and many of his Afghan friends even though he speaks with a thick accent. He learnt it in Afghanistan where he worked for the government. When he found there was no government to work for, he migrated as a refugee, bringing Mum and us later. When he worked for the government he had to speak in English often. That is how he learnt his English. But still he likes to compliment Mum.

But then, if her English is good enough why the hell doesn’t she speak it? I asked her once and she asked why should she speak in English to me, Aisha and Dad, not to mention all the other Afghans she speaks to, in anything other than Dari? You think I am crazy or something to speak in English to people who understand Dari? She asked. In Dari of course.

“Khalid!” she is calling again.

“What is it?’ I am in the kitchen now gazing at the lady of the house, plump behind the counter, covered head to toe, only the hands and face showing, ladling two fried eggs onto a plate already heaped with steaming spicy rice. There is a big glass of milk warming in the microwave.

“Here! Eat this!”

She points to the plate. I grin and sit down, sucking in the smell of the eggs and all the spices. The kitchen is always full of the smell of spices. Actually you can smell it from the front door, even in the front yard if the door is open. I remember one Saturday morning this old White bloke who was looking for an addy knocking on our door when Mum was cooking. Dad opens the door and this dude inhales deeply and says ah, the aroma of the Orient! I guess he didn’t have a clue what the smell was but seeing Dad he guessed that we must be from the Orient. But that’s what people are like I guess. I have heard people saying some drink tastes like piss. Like they taste piss all the time!

Mum looks at me sniffing at the eggs and the rice and frowns. She knows I like to do this before I eat because it smells so good but she also likes to frown when I do so.

“Don’t sit there smelling your food. Eat!” She sounds annoyed but she is not. She often sounds annoyed. Must be all the work she has been doing since she was a child. She was the eldest of four daughters and she was babysitting since she was five and cooking since she was eight as her mum was always sick before she died fairly young. Now she doesn’t have to look after the sisters who have children of their own but she still has to cook. Dad likes to cook too but Mum doesn’t let him. Mind your own business she says which simply means any business other than cooking. But it keeps her very busy because she cooks all the time or does something that has something to do with cooking. Gives you little time to think of anything other than the next job I guess. When she is frying the eggs she is thinking about warming the milk. When she has warmed the milk she is thinking about washing the plates. When she is washing the plates she is thinking about cooking lunch.

“Aisha!!!” I yell, looking up. The spoilt little brat must be still showering. It’s 7.20 already and she is still showering. The bus will be there in ten minutes and we will miss it at this rate. She has another thing coming if she thinks I am gonna wait for her.

“Why are you yelling?” Mum asks as she takes the milk out. “She will come down soon. She knows where the food is.” She puts the milk before me.

“Drink!”

I grin again. I want to say that I too know where the food is and she doesn’t have to yell. But that doesn’t work. Long time ago Mum had decided she was going to yell at me and not at Aisha. Who am I to change tradition? Besides what is a bit of yelling when you can eat food this good.

“Can I have some more rice?”

Mum looks at me as if I am the cause of all the famines in the world before taking my plate to heap another mound of rice. “You eat too much!” She says as she pushes the plate at me. “Do you want another egg?”

“No.” I say. “I am trying to cut down.” I can see Mum wants to laugh but she only allows herself a little smile. Busy.

Aisha walks in, fixing her hijab. “Why are you yelling like I am down the road or something?” She frowns and picks up her plate, letting the hijab just hang loose over her head.

“If you don’t hurry we will miss the bus,” is all I say. But Mum wants her to fix her hijab first. “Fix your hijab before you eat,” she says. “How many times do I have to tell you?”

Aisha starts fixing the scarf. “We have never missed the bus because I am late,” she says still pretending to be grumpy. I smile to myself. She is right. We have only missed the bus when I have slept in. Or when the bus was late – or early. We go to this Muslim school that sends its school buses around in the morning to pick up the kids. The bloke who drives our bus is a grumpy old man who expects us to be at the pick-up point when he arrives, even if it is 10 minutes early or 10 minutes late. How are we to know what time he is arriving on a particular day? I guess you will have to call him on his mobile but what is the point in calling somebody who almost never speaks? Fortunately he is usually late rather than early.

But I don’t admit Aisha is right. That would spoil the fun of having a little argument with the little sister. What is the point of having a younger sister if you can’t tease her? I remember when I was younger I was having fights with Aisha so often I used to ask Mum and Dad why we couldn’t get a brother instead of a sister. And all that Dad did was to look up like he was looking for a sign from heaven and say it was Allah’s wish. Then why can’t we have a brother at least now I used to ask and Dad said it is also Allah’s wish that we have no more children. I believed it then but now I am sure that although the first one may have been Allah’s wish and only Allah’s wish, the second one was certainly my parents’ wish as well. I guess having the two of us is more than enough for them. As for me, I would still be happy to have a brother but in addition to Aisha, not instead. She is too much fun to tease the little shit.

“Bloody bastard! Bloody bastard!”

Dad is on the phone to someone. I am not sure who he is speaking to though. He calls a lot of people bastard and not always because he is angry. It’s just a word he likes. Almost the only swearing he ever does. Good Australian word he says. Covers everything and everybody. Anytime.

“Who is he yelling at?” Aisha asks, in English, looking at Mum.

“The meat must be late again,” Mum says in Dari, setting a plate of rice before Aisha. She knows exactly who Dad is yelling at by listening to the tone of his voice. I guess when you are married to someone for eighteen years you get to know all the tones. Now she knows that the bastard he is yelling at is Frank who is the bloke who supplies meat to Dad’s butcher shop. Dad runs a halal butcher shop not far from where we live. He says it’s better than working for the government in Afghanistan. There I worked for butchers and here I am my own butcher he says and laughs at his own joke. He can be weird like that sometimes.

Will Nadia get to know my tones like Mum knows Dad’s, I wonder as I drink the tea. Nadia is this Lebo chick at our school. Hot, even with the hijab on. Hell, she can be in full burka and I will find her hot. Curves like that you can’t hide with a robe. And she doesn’t wear the hijab outside and man, then she can cause an explosion just by being there, killing anyone within a hundred meters with a heatstroke. Of course, not many people know I have the hots for her. Some friends at school do and Aisha knows too I guess being in the same school. Nadia,I am told, knows it too although she acts as if she couldn’t care less which only drives me nuts even more. Mum has no idea though. She would freak out if she knows I have the hots for a Lebanese girl. She wants me to marry an Afghan so that she can keep talking Dari all her life. Aisha threatens to tell her now and then but she doesn’t. She knows if she does I will tell Mum about Javed who although he is Afghan is also a prick who smokes like a chimney. Aisha thinks he is hot. I don’t really like him but I guess knowing that Aisha has a thing for him is good insurance. Besides I don’t think Aisha means anything serious with him. Imagine spending the rest of your life cleaning ashtrays! She is not that dumb.

Dad walks in, looking very upset. “The meat is late,” he says, sitting at the table. “That bastard Frank never delivers the meat on time. I think I will kick him and Massoud both out.” Massoud is the guy who helps Dad at the butcher shop. Nice bloke but a bit thick. For that reason Dad never calls him a bastard. He calls him a donkey. Not all the time but only when he makes a mistake which is quite often.

He starts eating, threatening Massoud and Frank with banishment from his business. We all know he is bluffing though. He has been threatening to kick Frank and Massoud out for the last five years but he never does. He never says so but I know Dad thinks that if he kicks out Frank when he has a disabled wife and four children to feed, Allah will do something worse to him, like making sure the meat is never there on time, no matter who he hires, bastard or not. Massoud is another piece of work. Fourteen children. Dad will keep him too. Doesn’t want Allah to send twelve more kids like us I guess. I don’t think he wants him or Mum to go through that. Children are a treasure, I have heard Dad say to people. But I am sure there are some treasures you don’t want to have a too much of.

He pauses and looks at the lawn outside. The grass is getting long even if it’s the middle of the winter. “Did Mustafa bring back the lawn mower?” he asks in Dari so Mum replies. “No,” she says. “Not yet.”

“Bloody bastard!” Dad says again before he returns to his food. That was definitely meant for Mustafa. Even I can see that. Mustafa or Uncle Mustafa as we sometimes call him is this old Afghan dude who lived down the street, in the last house next to the little playground. He lives with his wife and four sons and does little work other than walking up and down the road and chatting to anybody and anything that moves, thanks to Centrelink. He is a nice bloke but he irritates Dad because he comes round to borrow the lawn mower all the time, even in the middle of the winter. His lawn must have been the best kept lawn in the street, courtesy of our mower into which he never poured even a spoonful of petrol. But Dad always let him have it as he was living on welfare even though he was fit enough to work and Dad called him a bloody bastard for it. Besides, Mustafa was also a kind man. If he had any petrol left he would mow Little Barry’s lawn as well, for the sake of charity. Little Barry, the little Aussie bloke who used to live in the house opposite to Mustafa’s, never had any time for mowing his lawn or doing anything else because he was always drinking. Mum said he must be lonely or sad or something because he just drank, never hurt anybody. Actually he drank himself to death only two weeks ago, only a day after Mustafa had done a great job on his lawn – with our petrol.

“Turn the TV on.” Dad says, looking up from the plate. He likes to watch TV when he is having breakfast and dinner. And our TV is now placed so strategically that you can watch it from the kitchen table. Dad chose the spot for it and was very proud of it. He is always shifting and moving things in the house when he is free. It’s like a hobby I guess. His name is Rustam and some of the Aussie customers who have been buying lamb and beef from him for years call him Rusty. But there is nothing rusty about my Dad. The number of times our furniture has been moved around is proof of that. He calls it the “movement of the furnitures.” I know, it sounds like some seasonal migration of birds or something but the only thing seasonal migration of birds has in common with the “movement of the furnitures” is the movement. The birds move seasonally but the “furnitures” move almost weekly. They are always on the move, our furniture. It is a bit hard to keep up with the movements sometime because what used to be the sofa last week could suddenly turn out to be the dining table today. But the TV will stay for awhile I guess. That spot was a real discovery for Dad. I should have been an interior designer he kept saying for several days after that because he could now watch the news and current affairs while having his breakfast and dinner at the kitchen table itself while having little chats with mum. Mum doesn’t mind all the movements as long as things in the kitchen remain where they are.

Mum turns the TV on using the remote which she keeps in the kitchen. I think she is very grateful for dad’s interior designing skill as now she can turn the TV on from the kitchen and keep it on while cooking, watching it now and then when she needs a break. She doesn’t care what she watches as long as there is nothing rude. Fat chance of that happening between morning and evening!

The TV comes to life. That reminds me. Wonder who won the footy last night, the Blues or the Hawks. For some reason they were playing the game on a Thursday evening and I had no time to watch it because I had some stupid assignment to finish. Mum said I should finish the homework and then watch TV. It was so late when I finished I just went to bed without even checking the scores.

There is a newsbreak on. The prime minister is saying something, or trying to say something but we don’t get it, as usual. I think prime ministers are meant to be like that. I have heard several prime ministers and premiers speaking on TV for the last ten years but never understood what they were saying. I guess it’s a politicians’ thing. I remember once this local MP dude came to our mall during one election and went around shaking hands and talking to people, especially to little children. I did not understand a word he was saying even though I listened carefully because he looked so keen. He even said asslaamalikkum to Dad while trying hard not to stare at Mum wearing the niqab. Then he went on to say something about how badly misunderstood Muslims are and we just stood there smiling and nodding our heads like idiots wondering if he realized how badly he was understood by us.

“Bloody bastard,” says Dad again and we are not sure if he still means Frank or Mustafa or now he has decided to bastardise the PM. No matter. The volume is gradually fading. A sure sign his anger is dying.

A woman has given birth to triplets, for the second time, according to the news woman. A woman after Massoud’s heart I guess. Three for the price of one. “Hamdulillah!” says Mum looking at the woman on the screen, looking so happy with her three little babies dressed in identical baby clothes. She probably thinks it’s a miracle, but a miracle she can surely do without. Imagine cooking for that lot! Somebody had broken out of a juvenile detention centre, the news reader is saying now. A 17 year old kid. He has shot a guard and is on the run with a gun. Supposed to be dangerous. I reckon! If he had shot a guard and is carrying a gun he has to be.

“Bloody bastard.” Now the tone is very low. The anger is subsiding.

“What is a juvenile detention centre?”

Aisha asks. God! What ignorance! And she is already 15. “That’s where you are heading,” I can’t help saying. I grin at my own smart crack. But Aisha ignores me. She has her own come back. “He looks hot!” She says without even looking at me.

I look at the screen. There is the picture of a boy, with dirty blond hair, kinda skinny and malnourished, face full of freckles. Hot?? If that is hot most guys in the world must be sizzling.

“You obviously don’t know hot from cold,” I say like an adult putting down a smartass kid. “But good match. Former detainee marrying future detainee.”

“That’s enough!” Mum snaps, picking up our plates. Aisha looks at

me and sticks her tongue out as if to say you may have your wit but I have Mum. I can’t but smile at her cheek. Wouldn’t have it any other way. Mum knows that too.

Dad is eating silently now. No more bastardising.

“What happened to the footy?” I ask, looking at no one in particular.The newsbreak had ended without a word on the game. “Carlton won,” answers Dad. But I am not sure. Dad is far better at telling his lamb from his beef than knowing Carlton from Manchester United. How many times have I heard him telling people this or that team had won the footy when that team wasn’t even playing? He just likes to give an opinion on something, all the time. Well, not really. Only when Mum doesn’t have one.

No matter, I will check at school. School is full of people who know which team plays which.

Let’s go, I say, picking up my bag. Aisha looks at me as if there is another hour for the bus. But she gets up anyway.

Bye Mum, bye Dad, we say as we walk to the front door. All that Mum says is to hurry up before we miss the bus. Dad only raises his hand to show that our departure has registered with him. He may not be bastardising Frank anymore but I can see that he is still thinking of the meat.

I open the door but we can’t get out.

There is someone standing there. A boy, tall, dirty blond hair, the face skinny, kinda malnourished, lots of freckles. And in his hand, a gun.