The Queens of Govan



The street wis wetter than ever, and that wis saying somethin. She walked, faster than before so that the rows of terraced houses became a blur of dirty white an then she broke intae a run, worried, short strides at first, but then as her pace increased, her trainers began tae bounce over the water and she wis almost flyin through the darkness. The black of her jeans and leather jacket made her skin, seem whiter. That, an the make-up. It wis aw in the contrast. There wis nae danger ae her bumpin intae anyone. Like a bat, Ruby possessed a radar which steered her between lives. If she ran fast enough, she might escape. The shop-fronts were shuttered against the rain and the weekend but the street teemed wi people: busy men wi mobiles-an-braces and bare-armed, high-heeled women, tipsy on the June rain. An in the dark corners, everywhere the junkies wi hooded eyes an lang teeth an nae shaddaes. The noise ae cars as they swished through the wet. It wis like the Clyde had burst its banks an was washin doon the Copland Road but the waters it brought, would not be pure. It wis Saturday night in Govan, jis before ten, an soon, like paradise, the pubs would be spewin out their punters in varyin states ae intoxication an the men and women would teeter across pavements an wade through headlights an quite possibly, would end up queuein fur a kebab carry-out which Ruby would huv tae serve tae them. But she wis late, an all because ae those bloody phone-calls. Qaisara would be... difficult. When she wis upset, her boss would become sullen, moody like a teenager. And then, all night, Ruby would be swimmin through glue.

She felt the back ae the mobile, flap against her thigh as she ran, plastic on denim. It wis a nifty wee thing wi a case which flipped open like wan ae those communicators in Star Trek; the stuff her bhai watched, all the fuckin time. Beam me up. An she wished she could jis beam up intae the Qaisara Kebab House. She wis meant tae huv been there, ten minutes earlier but she'd got talkin tae wan ae her friends an time had jist seemed tae lengthen, the way it did on Saturday nights an sometimes on Sunday mornins, as weil so long as her papa didnae huv a hangover. It wis that sense that anythin wis possible, that ye might yet be a film-star like Madhuri Dixit or that ye could be a TV presenter or a pop icon like that girl in The Wind Machines. She wis Asian an blonde and Ruby reckoned she must be wearin a light honey wig, but it wis pretty convincin, all the same. Blonde-ness wis an attitude. The Wind Machines. That famous shot ae Marilyn Monroe, stonin over the windy vent...
She felt the air balloon in her chest, the night air filled wi the diesel ae taxis an last buses an the bleary breath of men in whisky bottle suits an it wis a darkness with which she wis familiar. Twenty-two years. Twenty-three, if ye counted the time before she wis born. But then, if ye counted that...

The TV wis always on in their house. Even when visitors came, the big box would still be blastin out adverts, or a love-song fae some sunny hillside in the valley of Kashmir, or mibbee Shah Rukh Khan would be leapin an grinnin his way through yet another field of rape seed on his way tae gettin the girl. When her papa came home in a waft ae booze an regret, her bhai an her would turn the thing up an would close the door, in the hope that mibbee he wouldnae come intae the livin-room an would go straight tae bed. Their maa would remove his clothes, one-by-one, an then would lie down on a separate mattress on the floor where she would remain awake for most of the night, listenin tae his whisky breathin an tae the sounds ae lone cars acceleratin away in the night. Sometimes, Ruby would dream of her maa 'n' her papa. Two filmi stars on a mountain-side, singin an dancin by a silver stream. Only the stream wis whisky an the geet wis a lament. Ruby 'n' her maa had conversations. They never talked. Sometimes, she wished her maa would confide in her, she wished they could be like sisters. But her maa wis too busy wi her papa to bother about anyone else. If Ruby ever did get married, it would be by default. But she didnae care. Who needed a man, anyway? Occasionally, he would come home sober, an then things would be different an they would all have tae pretend tae give him the same respect which they gave tae their uncles. It wis an act, the whole thing wis jist a fuckin Mashriki mask. Their life here. Love. Her chastity. Everything. Beneath it all, the dogs of the West had taken control. So the mullah had told them. Her 'n' her bhai. He had wanted them to join the Young Muslims an tae go about wi clean-cut attitudes an big chips on their shooders. Beards an hijaabs. But her bhai watched TV, instead, an she ... she had got a job in the kebab-house. The place wis in the heart ae Govan which wis gae unusual fur an Asian-run Carry-Out. Maist ae those were in the slightly safer territory ae Kinnin Park where broon faces outnumbered the pink and where the Changezi Family held an easy sway wi machetes an hockey-sticks. The Qaisara Kebab House wis right next door tae the Govan Town Hall, a great red sandstone building which now functioned as The Social, but which stood opposite Plantation Quay where, once, the slaves had washed up in great black waves on their way tae America. Qaisara had told her that, soon after she'd started workin there. Qaisara had told her many things. The woman wis filled wi wisdom and what ye saw in Qaisara wis only the tiniest bit of what wis there. She glanced at her watch, as she ran. Qaisara couldnae abide people bein late. She would be paagal in her own, strange way. Ruby didnae blame her. It wisnae easy, tae run a business. Things didnae jis fall intae place, like in a movie. Take One, Take Two ... No, it wis different, in real life. Ye had tae bleed, fur a drap ae silver. Ye had tae die, over an over again. An Qaisara had had her fair share ae death.

The rain wis tankin it down, an Ruby felt the black bomber leather ae her jacket grow heavier as it soaked up the water. She didnae need anythin on her heid; her hair wis so thick and black. Nae blonde wigs in Glasgae. Aw that stuff wis for them in London where ye might pretend tae be anythin and no-one would give a shit. Sometimes, she longed fur that kindae anonymity, fur the chance of jist droppin off the edge of the world and seeing where y'ended up. The problem wis, ye only had wan life. Ye could take the wrong turn, and ruin it an there would never be any goin back. Like her papa, an his drink. Fuck that. She glanced up at the sky but could make out only the broken silver of the rain. She slowed down, jist a fraction, and let the drops splash onto her face, felt the tiny pin-pricks against the skin. Ah know ah'm alive, she thought. Ah know ah'm alive.
A mass against her shooder sent her reelin. She almost fell intae the gutter. Jis managed tae get her balance, but felt her money slip outae her inside pocket. The clatter ae change.
'...fuck!'
She had forgotten tae close the zip.
'Eh! Want some ae this?'
He wis white, thirty and overweight. His face wis aw loose an pasty like a used punch-bag.
She began tae pick up her money. He tottered, drunkenly, towards her. Her hand moved quickly across the asphalt. She got it all back, except fur a ten pence piece which glinted in the middle ae a puddle. She decided it wisnae worth it, and sprang away fae him. His eyes were dirty blue. She spoke to his forehead.
'Fuck off.'
Behind him, in the shadows ae a shop-front, a couple ae guys were watchin. Waitin.
'Ah'd love tae. Whit ye runnin fae, darlin?'
His hand waved about like he wis a Hindi hero, about tae break intae song. But there were nae hillsides, hereabouts.
She stepped back, right intae a puddle in the gutter. Felt the black water splash up her jeans tae the place above her ankle. She swore under her breath.
'Get lost, arsehole.'
He mouthed a kiss. She could smell his breath. Deid whisky. Her papa. She wanted tae vomit.
'Aw, come on. Dinnae be like that. Ah'm a good yin wi the ladies, always huv been.'
He glanced round at the other men who had become his companions.
'...An the night, Ah fancy a wee bit ae spice.'
'A vindaloo! wan ae them shouted, Tae take away!'
Dirty Blue wis droolin. He reeled, an his hond reached out.
'Come here, ma wee Asian Babe...'
Ruby tried tae spit, but found that her mouth had dried up. She wisnae gan tae wait. She leapt outae the puddle and ran. The man called after her, somethin about her legs, but she didnae want tae listen. For an awful moment, she had the feelin that he wis followin her, slowly but inexorably like the monsters in those horror movies which her bhai watched when he wisnae watchin Star Trek. They never died, those monsters. They were indestructible. Like fear. Or hate. She ran all the way tae the end ae Copland Road and turned right and only then did she ease down again. Her whole body wis tremblin, an the rain drove intae her face. She cursed hersel fur leavin so late. That's what ye get, she thought. Talkin tae yer friends, dollin yersel up. Dark blue lipstick an pale make-up, jis so you'd look a wee bit mair Mediterranean. Workin yer body, tryin tae wipe out the curves an tae appear, as straight an white as possible. Who're you tryin tae fool? That man knew what ye were. It shines through, especially when they're pissed. People could see more when they were drunk, or after they'd had sex. It dulled the senses but sharpened the wits. They could see through the masks. Ye couldnae hide in Govan. It wis aw pubs an carry-oots an alleyways where dogs an hookers plied their trade. Dark places, amidst the neon. It wis either wan, or the other. If ye tried tae live between the two, you would split apart like the moon. Or like Pakistan. Her breastbone hurt with each breath, an she felt the relief flood through her as, up ahead, she spotted the flashin blue sign of the Qaisara Kebab House.

She paused. Didnae want tae go intae the place, lookin desperate. Desperation wis weakness. An Ruby had never let weakness direct her actions. No like her papa. He'd once been a real painter-an-decorator an Ruby remembered that in the early days, before the booze had completely taken over, he had painted her room all purple-an-orange. Well, it wis the Seventies. But she only remembered it fae a photo. Her 'n' her papa, up against the wall. He wis tall and he had his hand on her left shoulder. But she couldnae remember his touch. The thing wis, because her papa had slowly sunk intae the long, green bottles ae the pub next door, their flat had remained in a state of suspended animation; the walls, the furniture, the smells even, had stayed stuck in 1975. The year she wis born. The year he turned tae drink. Fuck that. She walked intae the shop.

Sayin nothin, she went intae the back, took off her jacket and hung it up. She noticed that wan ae the cheap, brass hooks wis beginnin tae come aff the wall. She fingered the plaster underneath. It wis crumbling, grey. She pulled out what seemed to be a hair. Gazed at it. Dead horses. The back ae the shop smelt damp, as though the Clyde wis seepin through the bricks. She could hear music fae out in the shop. Anjaana, by Lata Mangeshkar. Malika-e-Tarunum. Lata had a child's voice yet she could reach Ruby like no other singer. Ruby had never had a voice. An anyway, her maa'd said it wis only whoors and Hindus that sang an danced. But behind the masks, everyone wis a whoor. Everyone danced and screamed their way through life. She flicked the horse hair off her fingers, but it seemed tae stick tae the skin. Shit, she said, shit, and she rubbed it off along the seam ae her jeans. Washed her hands, an her face. Went through tae the front of the shop. Tried tae be busy. She almost wished fur customers. Qaisara wis slicin some meat. The gas behind the donner sputtered and coughed. That wis wan ae Ruby's jobs. Tae light the fire behind the donner. Qaisara didnae look at her as he spoke. O fuck, Ruby thought.
'You do the salads, she said. The lamb can wait.'
Her voice wis bowstring taut, and Ruby did not ask whether or not she should also do the chicken.

The heat of the place soon dried her off. After a shift at the kebab-house, her skin would be raised and puckered like that of a sailor, and later, she would gaze at herself in the bathroom mirror for ages, and try tae soothe her face wi cold water and cucumbers. She didnae want tae end up like Qaisara. A face, swollen with the long nights of bein burned slowly over the open fires ae the cookers. She'd heard that once, Qaisara had been beautiful. Young, slim and beautiful. It wis hard tae see, now. She had a long face, the colour ae dark honey and her eyes were piercin black. The hair which once, had been sable wis now streaked wi grey, although Ruby knew that she dyed it, fae time tae time. The skin wis beginnin tae sag aroon the eyes as though the fingers were already weighin on her lids. Qaisara wisnae fat but she wis bulky wi muscle. One night, she'd watched her boss throw out three young wankers who'd come in and given her mouth. Totally calm, she'd grabbed two ae them by the collars an rammed them up against the wall an the other one had jist taken fright, an run. They were all cowards, those guys. Big mooths but behind the mooths, nuhin. Jis air, and a Rangers scarf. Nuthin. Qaisara wis wearin a sunflower yellow shalvar-kamise wi the sleeves rolled up. She watched Qaisara's airms as she worked, watched the way the wee muscles in her fingers moved as she sliced the meat, watched the manner in which she bore herself. There wis a grace about her boss which Ruby had never seen in anyone else. And she knew that that wis why she worked here, in spite ae the moods an the long hours an the crap money an the danger ae fuckin up her looks. An in the early hours ae the mornin, when she got outae the burnin shop, the air would be clean and dark, and she would breath it in and feel cleansed by it. God nivir slept, she thought, but if he did, it would be then. In the depths ae the night, she would feel that she could do anythin.

Ruby thought ae the girls she'd known fae school. Some ae them had gone on tae do wonderful things. Social things, or medical. Some ae the girls had got married, the moment they'd stepped outae the school gates, often tae guys hauled up fae wan ae the gao's around Faisalabad. One day, those guys would be pushin a plow an the next, they would be lyin in bed on top ae a frightened eighteen year old wi five Higher Grade Certificates stacked up on her parents' shelves. And the funny thing wis, sometimes it worked. It wisnae any worse than the drunken romances which the gorees seemed tae fall intae, at the drop ae a rubber. Ruby wis kindae in-between. Or sometimes, she thought, ah'm nowhere. Like a lot ae her saheli, she'd lost her virginity a few years earlier, doon some dark alley wan night wi a guy whom she could barely recall. All she remembered wis a scarlet baseball cap wi letters sewn intae the fabric. She could see them now, the way each thread curled and twisted and stabbed intae the cloth like tiny, pulsing arteries. But she wis used tae the double-life. At home, she wis totally, nauseatingly Mashriki, Ah ho, God-be-with-you, behtiye khala ji, while outside, in the darkness of night or beneath the burnin sun of the parks, she would be rampant and would slip off towards dives which no-one knew the names of. And Ruby'd had boyfriends, mainly white, but none had been serious, so tae speak. It wis jis supplyin a mutual need. A trade, ye might say. They needed her brown-ness as she needed their white. It wis fair, if not equal. But then, she thought as she laid out the last of the lettuce, nothin had ever been equal. She moved on tae the lamb.

Qaisara looked up. She wis a woman ae few words. That wis part ae her mystique. Everyone had their secret places. Take someone's secrets away, and you would destroy them.
She glanced up at the wall clock. Nodded.
'Closin time, soon.'
Qaisara wis a Muhajir fae 'Forty-Seven. 1947. Blood and Partition. Lost identities... death.
And later, she'd married Qaisar Sahb who wis almost two decades her senior, for financial security and a modicum of respectability. Romance had never been an issue. Asians were very pragmatic about romance, love, an aw that. It wis fine, as long as it remained trapped in th box; in filums, songs an the bathroom mirror; but if it should be allowed tae escape intae real life, if the ink of its delicate nastaliq symbolism should invade the gullies ae Karachi or Kinnin Park then it could cause, only strife and unhappiness. Because the expectations born in the dreams ae romance, could never be fulfilled, this side ae Kiamath. Her maa had once told her that love wis only fur poets, madmen and gorees. An she should know. She'd had a love-marriage, an look where it had got her. Guilt and alcoholism. She had the guilt; he had the sharaab. Or rather, the sharaab had him. Anyway, Qaisara's mia had driven the Corporation buses while she'd worked in Mr. Singh's Sweat-Shop where one day, she'd taken a needle tae Singh's throat and demanded and got, her Back Pay. She'd lost her job and had earned the title of, That Paagal Woman but she couldnae huv cared. Fear an respect, as she would say, were priceless commodities. With the money they'd earned, they'd set up the Qaisar Kebab House. Her mia wis an auld man by then and Qaisara had done maist ae the work. Which she wis used tae. And then, one day he collapsed and died. Everyone thought that would be the end ae the Kebab Shop. They expected tae see the shutters adorned wi For Sale signs. Black-suited Cash 'n' Carry owners wi suitably mournful faces had drawn up in white Mercedes and made her offers which they thought she couldnae refuse. The Family who ran Protection in the whole ae Kinnin Park began tae wonder who would be movin in, and when, since Qaisar Sahb had always paid on time and had always been most respectful like the true Muhajir he wis. But when, one sunny Sunday evenin, Qaisara had re-opened the shop, almost everyone had crowded in, tae see jist how she would manage. The thing wis, she made sure she wis in control. Like everyone, she paid protection but only on condition that the runners, the baggers and aw the rest would buy their kebabs exclusively fae the Qaisara Kebab House, as she had re-named it. Then folk had expected her tae re-marry, but as the years had gone by, that expectation, too, had fallen by the wayside and now everyone jist let Qaisara, be. She had nae sons, nae mia an she ran her ane business. An Ruby respected that. Sometimes, she admired Qaisara mair than she did, Madhuri Dixit. Qaisara wis real. Anyway, tonight they were expectin the usual Saturday night crowd, swollen by the end ae a footba match that wis bein beamed intae the pubs by satellite fae some far-off Latin American country whose name she couldnae remember. Her bhai had been watchin fur it tae come on when she'd left the flat. Watchin, an eatin like he always did. Munch, munch, munch. He wis already a barrel an would probably grow even fatter, by the time he wis married. He had taken after his papa. He had nae honour. Not like Qaisara. She turned towards Ruby. The rain had lightened up a little and the sound ae the city broke through the spaces.
'How's yer papa?' she asked.
Ruby shrugged. Didnae meet her eye.
'...Okay. Her voice sounded small. Like she had fallen back, ten years.'
'Tumari maa?'
She slapped some lamb skewers down in the display case. Then some more.
'Teek.'
'She's had a lot to cope with, your maa.'
Ruby spun round.
'D'ye want the sauce over there, or will ah leave it where it is? And what about the keema? Will I put it on, now or later?'
Quietly, Qaisara showed her where tae put the stuff, even though she knew that Ruby had done it, a hundred times before. Ruby wis surprised. She'd expected her boss tae be in a bad mood. She'd wantit tae tell her about the drunk but she hadnae dared.

The first folk in fae the rain, were some slap-happy football fans in tee shirts. They were polite and playful wi Ruby but she avoided their eyes. Ye couldnae give guys an inch, or they'd take a mile. After that, punters arrived in batches of half-a-dozen at a time. Wet faces, some smilin, others jis plain drunk. And one or two came in, alone, wi a blue sadness in their eyes. Ruby knew the look but she wisnae givin anythin tae anyone. The hands moved smoothly over the white clock-face while the insect light buzzed with tiny incinerations. It wis good, bein busy. They skewered pieces of lamb and chicken and laid the skewers on the grill and while the chunks were cookin away, they went over to the donner spit and hived off sleeks of brown meat which they laid on a bed of salad. An then the whole wis placed in the belly of a long slab of pitta bread and wrapped in paper, once, twice, and then was served. Donners on their own were the most common order. They filled bellies which rolled wi beer an lager. Filled and neutralised the rage which simmered beneath the skins ae Govan. The rage ae the dead ships an the closed factory gates an the games, lost and won; an the rage of the marchers wi their blue-an-orange banners which had been hauled, blood-spattered, fae houses ae God. An sometimes Ruby had felt herself tae be a part of that inchoate fury but she had shied away from it because she knew that like the great, black waters ae the Clyde River, it would sweep her away, not to the sea but to a darkness from whence there would be nae return.
When they were busy, Ruby an Qaisara would begin tae dance. The one, thin and dressed totally in black; the other, fleshy and swathed in yellow cotton. Both their faces were flushed, and they spoke not a word beyond what wis strictly necessary. It's aw trade, Qaisara had said, once, at the end ae a particularly grueling shift, It's aw trade. Their bodies glistened with a fine sweat and their hands worked in a rhythm which slipped through Lata's quiet notes and by one o'clock in the morning, they were moving a kind of fugue. Anjaana. They were women and maist of the punters were men. It wis aw trade.

By one-thirty, the rain had stopped and the runnels of water wormed down the glass and began tae evaporate in the night breeze. Ruby wis slicin meat aff ae the donner stand when she saw a group ae women standin on the other side ae the street. They were huddled together and were all around fifty years old. Every so often, the huddle would sway in the wind and begin tae break apart, an Ruby supposed they must've been the worse fur drink. They were pointin up at the kebab shop sign. She sliced off some mair ae the meat and collected it in a circular steel tray. Between the women, at the centre of their huddle, wis a bundle of cloth wi a pair ae legs. They came through the door in a mess ae giggles an cheer. A woman wi a face like a half-chewed turnip spoke. Her words slurred gently into one another like lovers.
'...Wan mixed, eh, wan mixed, what ye want, Jeanie? A mixed? What'd ye want?'
A chorus of Jeanies joined in, an Qaisara waited patiently for the women to decide just what it was, they desired. Ruby stood behind her. Drunk women were scary. It wis like she wis lookin at herself, thirty years down the road. If she kept well back, the smell of the meat would drown the stink ae sharaab. Then the bundle unfolded, and a head popped out.
At first, it meant nothin. Jis wan mair Saturday night drunk. His toothless smile. The soft focus. Once, she'd believed he wis God. But later, she had known that it wis jist the softening effect of sharaab. Alcohol had always been his beginning and his end and Ruby wis jist an interloper. An imposter.
'...Papa,' she said.
She hated herself.
Her throat wis closin over and the heat wis unbearable. Her father wis bein half-carried by the women. He didnae recognise her. But then, it had been years since he had really looked at her. She could've been anyone. She could've been no-one. The soundae Lata's voice rose and filled the shop. Anjaana. She smelled burnin skin and dropped the donner tray. The clatter woke him up and like a tortoise, he stretched his neck and peered over the glass counter. He wis gazin intae space. Whisky an vomit. Somethin cracked, inside, and everythin began tae drift in slow motion. She didn't know where it came fae, she didn't know it wis comin. She wis aware ae Qaisara, movin towards her, an of the gapin mouths ae the tarts which seemed tae merge intae one, black hole ae a mouth. A scream came fae the mouth and filled her, and then she, too, wis screamin. Ruby turned and gripped the donner spit and ripped it off its bolts. The lamb spilled, everywhere. She raised it above her head and flung it intae the centre of the crowd. It hit the man in the middle ae his chest an his eyes rolled upward an he went reelin intae the women who fell about like chess pieces. With the rebound, she toppled back and her head hit the wall. She felt somethin cold slip down her spine. A dead snake. Burnin flesh. The Queen ae Song.

When she opened her eyes, everything wis Qaisara.
'...Rubina? Rubina?'
Her long face wis singed wi worry and her voice wis pressing, insistent, lovin.
'Are you alright?'
Ruby felt as though she wis far away. She looked around her. They were in the back room, among the coats and the horsehair plaster. She could hear the rushing of the Clyde as it poured westwards. She tried tae get up, but Qaisara gently stopped her.
'It's okay, meri behtee, you just lie there, and rest. It'll get better. Soon, it will get better. The ambulance is on its way.'
She saw Qaisara adjust the front ae her chest and for a moment, she thought that one breast wis higher than the other. But then she blinked, and it wis gone. She tried tae shake her heid, tae say tae Qaisara, no, it nivir gets better. That's a lie. Nuthin ever gets better. But she wis too weak, and besides, her head felt as though it wis stuffed wi cotton wool jis like wan ae those toys that came swaddled in white. She touched her forehead and realised that there were bandages on her hands. Pain filled her, an she felt no pain. She let her neck go loose against the back ae the chair, and her eyes drifted over tae where the hook wis slowly comin aff the wall. Gradually, as she stared, the hole became bigger until she could see right through tae the night beyond. She saw the deid horses, gallopin about in fields ae lang grass, she smelled the sweat on their skins. She saw hairs sproutin fae Qaisara's chin an behind her, she heard the voice of the Malika-e-Tarunum, loop and dive in the clean early mornin air. An she felt the cold waters ae the Clyde flow around her and take her down intae a darkness without end. An she saw hersel, thirty years on, her face puckered wi the long, burnin nights, her sleeves bundled up around the elbows an she wis movin behind the silver counter in a dance which she had always known, would be her's.



Suhayl Saadi

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