seat even then—(how he misses his bullying!).
—*Eat, boy. Why don’t you eat? Bhaiya, why is he so thin? It’s not right for a Londoni.
—*I beat them—do they eat? It’s their mother’s fault.
(Where is his mother? She should be there, a soft buffer smelling of eau de toilette and sunscreen in her white headscarf and scorched skin. If she was there, snug between...)
Cigarette smoke gusting round and out the windows; he and Arif slyly kick each other.
Driving across arid plains. Everything the colour of lime. Then the fields of poppy. Mujahadeen stand in the orange heads, nicking poppy bulbs with a knife and screwing up their faces. (Somewhere the farmer and son stumble down the mountain track with the skinny pale horse or donkey.)
There in the border bazaar—tape recorders blaring distorted Quran, greasy Kalashnikovs, ammunition rounds, mortars on the stalls. Abba and Chacha cross-legged with jummah-going shop owners on the wooden stoops. And a bearded mullah leans forward, sober waistcoat criss-crossed with ammunition belts, to pinch his cheek (Naseeb, nai?), and a swell of pride tingles his ears.
They talk more and Chacha takes out a bundle of notes and puts it on the stoop.
And then he and Arif hold a Kalashnikov, and Abba fires in the air.
And now here, sneaking a glimpse in the backyard with Arif—the menfolk at some alchemy with a narrow trough of treacle giving off fumes, the blazing firewood in the afternoon not warmer than the grateful lump of love he feels, this privileged men’s world of Abba and Chacha and Arif...
Is this how he will remember dying?
Where, then, is Azrael, Archangel of Death? In the towering trunks of kelp stipes, the shadow of a grey whale so enormous it goes unseen.
And we hear the blast of Israfil’s horn smashing through the waters, and we arrow back to the surface.
And at the fiat of the Ruh Jibreel, we gathered in the lowest sphere within the compass of a grain.
And received the Book and the boy.
Henceforth are you confined to the slave, paired to record the Truth, which lies in the other’s hidden region. And created in symmetries, that you may succeed each other in the watches of the day, and the watches of the night. And your zaat as Angel-shaped threads from this world to the world of creatures. And your Lord is Merciful, Kind.
And Mikael of the wind and rain and sea and earth, and his angel hosts, made ready to translate to the realm of creatures. And he stretched thousandfold Wings.
Ten billion Angels feel the fluctuations. And at this instant we become Followers and Scribes for every soul ever born.
And with them the Noble Atid and I made ready to translate to the place of the creature. And the Relieving Angels keep a heartshaped lake till the appointed time.
Khoda hafiz, we say to each other, What you observe, we observe. As you are there, we are there.
An exploding horizon of Wings.
We cascade down shearing radiance, our faces burnt from the limitless sun, to receive a boy of ten in Rambo T-shirt, with the hazel-eyed children outside the white-walled house, and together dance with him, together dance with him to death.
2 | The Account of the Angel of the Right Hand
In which Your creature seeks his misfortune with the help of Angels and men; and is confounded by a drop of Mercy from a woman; and dreams of doing good; and finds his misfortune removed.
§
(Asr: 1605 GMT)
Da man runs out of his flat wiv da left luggige ticket.
An his Protectors front and back. Arownd dere transparence dey assume da semblans of cortiers from Samarkand. And dese have folowed him from da womb.
And I say to them:
Assalaamu alaykum Hamza, assalaamu alaykum Alif, how gos da servant?
Greetings, O Noble Scribes, you tell us, sez Hamza. We just wipe his bum.
Yr servant runs out of da flat wiv da left luggige ticket. Its mundane paper shining wiv baraka, to be exchangd for a black polythen parcel; dats gonna tumble out his Golden Fleece, gilding his face wif bliss, O shining faces of da blessed! I pray You Lord, his hert beats, Save this sad creture, for I am f___d. May I be truly thankful. Amen.
Da creature floors da clapping motor. Da whole way vex by da yowling yute, da yowling babby in th back o da car, and a fear th ticket wud fly out of his pocket.
—Todays da day, bway! Redistrbute som welth. Make em pay! Trust me. Yu gonna ride shotgun for me? You da Man! I need yu.
But da babby is bawling snot in his babychair.
—Hey, Jonah! Lern som history, mistah. You payin attenshion? We won da war for dem goore. *Us Pathans, bwoy. Understand? Hanh. So now we’re helping arselves. Ey, bill up for me, geeza... for fffaaa... Hey, Jonah...!
But da babby is bawling snot.
And under his breth, Shut da fff-flip up, man.
(Careful of his hart, Naseeb. Th child doz not know riht and rong. His Protecting Angels strong.)
—Yu shud a met my Legal. He’da educated ya. Wots one crime when yu got British come n screw evryone over? But you knock over one old boy, an da hole machinery comes down on ya!
But da pickney yowls for his bottel.
I rite his words, I get you da juce, I get you da juce, as one good deed. And my noble Atid will sternly smile an say, Let him turn the car rownd. I’ll giv him a thozand merits.
And da car swerving as da servant gropes for a baby botle.
—Here, cane it. Only Jonah, yu gotta fix up, look da part, get me? I cant do this without yu. Blatant. Yore my sideman. Anyone com near me, yore da mouth.
And da Protectors wrap dere powers around da car to stop it swerving. And perhaps, perhaps dere was an atoms waiht of kindnes for da child. And praps I shud record it as ten good deeds.
Da road to Heethrow is alwayz rosting.
Yor creture floors da clapping motor.
Aw, we are breezin, cry Hamza an Alif, striking fihting pozes on da hood n roof, thoh assuming da semblans of cortiers from Samarkand—thir green tunic and turban tails ripping: Wet dat motor, bossman! And da child’s Protectors cry, Maashallah, and a liht blazed whirling from his weels.
And if you cud see a Caravan of Protectors poized on bonnets an hoods in da jam from Northolt!—thir wite robes or black tunics ripping, or as elastic deformasion, or electrical or magnetic intensity…
And in de airport da cretur clings like begfrend to da child. In his hand da left
