And since the legendary Tina, who would later my mother-in-law (!!!), recalled this story, written in India during the monsoon of 2002, won awards at international competitions, and finally published in a 'anthology, Princess blue 2, edited by Delia Vaccarello (Mondadori, 2004), here it is for those who have not read. A story that p38 was then used with his students, revisiting many voices. The first story ever published nationally, and which marked the beginning of the season's creative scrittura, sbocciata come tante altre cose in India. Sono agli sgoccioli della traduzione, e sono molto stanca, ma il mattino è pura luce, e ho accanto un uomo meraviglioso e degli amici insuperabili che ieri sera a mezzanotte passata mi han portato il gelato in camera, quello di Natural's. Gusto: Tender coconut, con i pezzi di cocco dentro.
La mano di dio
Di Clara Nubile
Il cielo è stropicciato, striato di viola carico e di un azzurrino mite, mi cade sulla testa, like the blade of Kaleeb. I cut the mind and fills it with red, all red, which can fill. I can barely imagine the minarets, then the breath.
The breath is the hand of God at sunset. The breath is the sunset every night, caresses my neck sticky and it makes me tremble. When I explain to Kaleeb that there are things beyond the sky, he keeps threatening to wield the knife, he plunges the blade into innocent flesh of sheep and sheep sacrificed for the culture-hungry Muslims and whites alike.
The night I fall asleep with the blade of Kaleeb next to the bed. Kaleeb like a cat climbs on the first floor of the building where the rooms are for Muslims, and then from there sneaks up on the top floor where I do not know what rule, there are only whites. The rooms on the top floor with views of the red. How I would spend an hour, one hour of my earthly life in one of those rooms. Instead I have to satisfy me that the red helmets on at sunset. "This is the beauty," she whispered, F. at a more red than usual, and his hand went through the burqa. Kaleeb not even imagine if your hands crossing the burqa, the pleasure of that expectation. But he wants to see it: a little sister a bit 'dumb that no one wants to marry because he speaks with God and God is not addressed to the silly sisters.
Kaleeb a volte se ne torna dalla sua perlustrazione notturna con la coda fra le gambe, altre volte, invece non torna nemmeno. Mi dice sempre che il sapore delle bionde non è descrivibile. Anche le rosse non sono male, ma tante volte non si capisce cosa si nasconde dietro le lentiggini. Quelle coi capelli scuri o castane, proprio no. Non se ne parla, tanto ce ne sono così tante anche qui. Gli ripeto spesso che quelle bionde che tanto gli piacciono molte volte sono finte, perché si tingono i capelli con gli acidi schiarenti. «Cosa ne capisci tu di capelli e di bellezza» mi ferisce lui e io sorrido furba e penso che lui non capisce niente di amore e ancora meno di corpo. Sì, perché invece io di corpo ne so, eccome. Non voglio say that word to the body and using all the others. They are not modest because they are Muslim, are modest because they are romantic and I like to call it the love of the body. For me there is only F. and his body. These thoughts I close my eyes. Kaleeb not return tonight. There was a cute blonde that little fire and threw shotfirers eyes while serving dinner. From Karim in the heart of Old Delhi is eat and sleep. And we dream. Because the Jama Masjid, the old mosque, is so close and touches your heart.
The Jama Masjid is a body all red. Every day hundreds of people over her, some Muslims, Hindus and then many other foreigners, firanghi who come to seek and find themselves Kaleeb ready to please everyone, one way or another.
Kaleeb is my brother, when cutting the meat for the tikka kabab or looks like a cut-throat and he grins, "like the white, they think that Muslims are all fools and madmen, always with the blade ready, "and continues to shred pounds and pounds of meat that gives him each morning the butcher Abdul, a nice guy, Bangladesh. But I the morning I clean the room, indeed the restaurent as it says on the sign of the local e mi alzo con la prima chiamata alla preghiera, fajar si chiama. Mi piace alzarmi quando tutto il locale sonnecchia. Kaleeb nascosto sotto il corpo bianco di una sua preda oppure che russa nel letto vicino al mio, e poi l’acqua fresca come il cielo mattutino. Il muezzin chiama e io mi metto a pulire e canto e a volte ballo. Vado matta per i film di Bollywood, per quei balletti strapieni di colore e di musica. Le conosco tutte a memoria le canzoni più famose, F. mi prende in giro, dice che quelle sono robaccia e che dovrei ascoltare i ghazals o i bajans , i canti devozionali, ma a me non mi interessano. Io voglio una musica che mi divori il cuore e che mi consumi le viscere, che mi pieghi di piacere, come le the hands of F. So sings the songs of Chaata Dil Hai that romantic movie, and mop tightly to wash away the foreign odor. Not what the smell of foreign stranger, the foreign odor is coming from the underworld, the world without God. I wash off the smell away from God and then singing again. I prepare the tables for breakfast, I go out, even before I put on my burqa we wear all black here in Delhi and buy flowers fragrant white to decorate the tables. Outside is light and almost incomplete at this time of day and night I make a sweet and intimate thoughts to God. I thank God that is with me always. Then after five minutes that I dedicate to God, I think F. and mi chiedo che scusa inventeremo ancora per vederci. L’ultima volta ho detto a Kaleeb che dovevo andare dal dottore. Allora lui mi fa «Ti accompagno in scooter io dal dottor Khan. Preparati e mettiti il burqa.» «Non vado dal dottor Khan. Ho bisogno di una dottoressa per cose di femmine. Ce n’è una brava a Nuova Delhi, musulmana.» «A Nuova Delhi? E come ci arrivi fin là?» Semplice, no, col treno, come fanno tutti. «Mi accompagna Salima» gli ho detto. E comincia la pioggia di raccomandazioni fraterne: attenta a non salire negli scompartimenti per uomini, quei perversi degli indiani ti molestano solo a guardarti, e poi non perdetevi tu e Salima, eccetera, eccetera. Ho diciassette anni ormai e Delhi la conosco bene, sono nata qui. Kaleb invece è nato a Srinagar, in Kashmir. I miei si sono trasferiti qui e hanno aperto il locale. Poi sono morti nel frattempo: mio padre in Kashmir, era tornato per motivi familiari e mia madre non so come, ma è morta. La morte c’è, è inevitabile. Impregna l’India, la morte.
Ma ora non ci voglio pensare. Penso invece alla mia scusa per vedere F. Potrei dire a Kaleb che devo tornare dal quel dottore. Come mi sono divertita con F. l’altra volta, nel parco tutto verde e profumato di Nuova Delhi, sembrava l’america quel parco. Intorno a noi si chiacchierava, si mangiava, si giocava, si leggeva e noi due nei nostri corpi, con le nostre mani, in bilico. Un grosso and imposing tree has given us five or maybe seven minutes of intimacy, then appeared the children. But the smell of F. is still with me. I like it.
After the system tables, give a hand in the kitchen. Then comes Kaleeb half asleep and prepares breakfast. I spend my days between kitchen and dining rooms to clean. At the beginning we had some boys who took care of these things, but when Mom and Dad are dead money is never enough. Kaleeb and I understand too little about money and politics. All we ask 'Why do not you go back to Srinagar? "But what we do in Srinagar, where everything is war and destruction? Others tell us that we Muslims should leave at home, in Pakistan. But which house in a foreign land? For me this place is home, this dark kitchen, this sudden glimpse into the sky of incense and urine in Old Delhi. House is God, the house is the old Red Mosque, which attracts Indian and foreign.
Kaleeb told me that nobody would marry an orphan in debt like me. Yes, because to continue the work of local, we had debts to the moneylenders. "Someday I'll take you to Hyderabad and you sell to a rich Arab, but filthy rich. We sell in dollars because you're a virgin and are worth more. I promise that then I come to save. "I laugh at these stories of Kaleeb, he is My brother and I are all that remains to him, would never do that.
short life is almost hard, but with God closely, it becomes lighter. And even more light and effervescent when I and F. we kiss. How many kisses he gave me these two years? Yes, because now we are two years together.
F. lives in New Delhi with his parents and an older sister, in a building with a pool. Her father is a senior government official, a Hindu to believe those who hate Muslims and Christians. His mother is sweet but weak. But F. is strong. He is not afraid of anything, well, 'in New Delhi is quite different, they are more open. F. studied in an English public school. "It costs a arm and a leg," he says. But I have a look for yourself, but do not say anything. The words are burned early in the alleys of Old Delhi where every so often comes to visit. We walk up, I wrapped all of my burqa, she salwaar kameez with a very good cut, a silky smooth as his lips. We walk and we imagine to be in america, where we can hold hands and give us a little kiss into the crowd.
But we keep away and only his eyes sink into the black veil of the burqa.
Today I resigned myself to live in the present. God taught me this evening at sunset has peeped out from the minaret of the Jama Masjid and whispered "Resigned to the present. You have no choice. Get your future and impacchettalo in the hold of a ship and not end up wondering where that ship. "Then, as always at the end of the sunset, the sky has fallen on me red head and the voice of Kaleeb joined me here since I do not know as we can, but every time I rip this piece of magic.
the evening, waiting tables, there are two friends Kaleeb that serve as waiters.
the evening I resign myself to this and if I can call tonight F. and tell her I love her, just like god.
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