Ghost Boys by Shenaaz Nanji

Author:Shenaaz Nanji
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Mawenzi House Publishers
Published: 2017-08-21T16:00:00+00:00

The Sandstorm

Fridays at the ousbah were quiet, as there were no races, but for Munna the day was anything but quiet. A bank of clouds clothed the sun yet he was sweating rivers as he stood in Master’s backyard over Babur’s crouched body. The boy’s round face peered out between his matchstick legs. Earlier, Babur had tied Tiger to a chair with camel reins and eaten his fish. Crime with a capital C.

The enraged Master had brought out his stick, when a blue van pulled up in front of the house. A tall white man in jeans, boots, and hat stepped out of the van, looking typically like a cowboy in the western comics Munna had seen. Master thrust his stick in Munna’s hand. “Six strokes,” he said and left to meet the visitor.

Munna held Master’s stick, feeling the rush of hot blood in his hand; the stick was meant to discipline unruly camels, not children. A feeling of helplessness tugged at his heart. He had become too fond of the little one. He glanced toward Master’s house. Was Master watching them from his window? What would Master do to him if he didn’t mete out Babur’s punishment?

“I sorry, Bhaiya,” said Babur, his body twitching, expecting a stroke any time.

“Shut up!” said Munna, then regretted it. Something came over him and he flung away the stick and broke into a sprint across the sandscape. Run, run, run away, urged a voice inside him. He had no idea where he was going or what he’d do. All he wanted was to get away as far as he could. He had hardly run for ten minutes when his heart threatened to give and his lungs heaved. The sun shone relentlessly. Sweat poured down his face and back. Everywhere around him was sand. The hungry desert will eat you, Master had said. He stopped to catch his breath. Watching the rocks and the sand around him an unease came over him. He turned around and started back toward the ousbah. But a hot wind was now blowing against him, roaring, tearing at him, stinging his face. Dust clouds whipped and whirled like devils all around him. He would never make it.

A few feet ahead of him something moved. The blowing sand made it hard to see. It drew closer. Surely, it wasn’t . . . What in the world was Babur doing here? The little boy pressed his head against Munna’s body.

“Bhaiya, you run very fast.”

“Babur, why did you follow me?”

“Master-ji smell irifi, sandstorm. I scared you die.”

Munna looked up at the sky. A turmeric-stained dust cloud was speeding his way, rushing across the sand and eating up the sky with the deafening roar of a freight train. Munna bent down, tied Babur’s scarf over his face, keeping open only a slit for his eyes, and did the same with himself. Then he gripped the little hand. “See that shelter,” he pointed to a rocky promontory about twenty yards away. “Let’s run for it.

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