Thread

I wrote this little sketch a while ago, then forgot about it. It came from listening to my father and uncles reminiscing after an Eid party.

* * *

Karim eyed the spool of thread longingly. His father had said no, not today, when he had asked for some of the pink cotton.

He knew that when Abu said no, that it was for The Greater Good. But the thread, sitting in the old sugar box under the windowsill, was taunting him, tempting him, simply begging to be slipped into a pocket.

“I’d prefer it weren’t so pink,” Lateef whispered.

“You don’t have to whisper, Teef.” Karim poked the younger boy in the ribs. “Ammy’s out in the kitchen.”

“I know, but—well, you’re not supposed to talk loudly when you’re thinking about, you know,” his voice dropped again, “stealing. Besides, it makes me feel as if I’m flying a giant ballet slipper.”

Karim eyed his fraying shirt hem ruefully. “Just be grateful she hadn’t run out of black when your clothes needed mending. And does it even matter what it looks like? The point is to fly the kite, not admire it.”

“I suppose,” yawned Lateef, not bothering to cover his mouth. He was proud of how hugely he could yawn, employing it as a party trick, and, in this case, a succinct I’m bored, amuse me now. It was, Karim reflected, a very clever, if pointed, way to change the subject.

“Take it,” Lateef whispered, nudging him.

“You take it. You’re younger, they won’t yell at you.”

Lateef shrugged. “You’re older. And you’re not clumsy.” He looked at his thick ankles and clunky feet gloomily. “I’ll just get to the window, trip over the sewing box, and smash my head into the table or the windowsill or something, then Ammy will keep us both here and you’ll get roped into helping lay the new floor.”

Karim looked about, taking in the peeling, cracked tile. All their cousins and aunts and uncles would be there soon, stoking the fire and chatting as they worked; Riyaid uncle would be handing out lollipops and chunks of paw paw, trying to bribe the children into helping.

But Karim hated collecting the cowpats, smushing them flat, tossing them into the fire to harden into tile. The smell crept up his nose, lodging itself inside the top of his nostrils, staying with him for days, destroying the good smells of khichiri and pickle, Ammy’s talcum powder, and fresh-snapped mango stems.

Being kept in was okay when she was around to play games and tell stories and let them make messes in the kitchen. But re-doing the floor—not even all Riyaid uncle’s lollipops were worth that.

“Fine,” he said hoisting himself up off the rug. “You beg the flour and can and matches from Ammy, and I’ll meet you by the creek in—” he glanced at the clock over the door “—ten minutes.”

Karim shuffled toward the windowsill.  Behind him, he heard the crackle of old tile, and knew Lateef was gone.

Just three feet, Karim thought to himself. Three feet to the sugar box, then three feet to the door. Just keep thinking in threes.

His heart pounded, battering his chest, stealing his breath. This is silly. It’s just cotton. Ammy lets us have it all the time.

He padded closer. Just two feet to go. Two feet, three feet.

I don’t see how it matters to Abu anyway. His shirts don’t need mending, and Lateef’s getting new ones for school soon. And it’s just thread. Just silly pink thread.

One foot to go.

Klink-klink, tink-tink. Ammy was tipping ice cubes into the big pitcher; the others would be arriving any minute.

Half a foot.

“We don’t need much, anyway,” he muttered to the tiles. “And we’ll bring it back. We won’t even keep it long. Honest.”

The box was right in front of him now. The lid’s hinges glinted menacingly—goosebumps tickled Karim’s skin. He put his hand out—hesitated—then, clasping it tightly around the reel, he whipped the thread out of the box, dropped it into his left pocket, and dashed the remaining three feet.

* * *

News sheets whiffled in his hands as he sped down the hill and toward the back fence. It was already two-thirty; twenty minutes since Lateef had left! Finding the newspaper had been the problem. The sheets had to be the flimsy, double spread sort, the ones people usually kept for wrapping food. Catalogues were too thick and heavy, and the gloss on their pages made them hard to glue. He’d rifled through three garbage tins just to find these ones. They smelled a bit like coriander and bhajia, but Karim didn’t care. This smell—this good, happy, smell–would get lost in the wind, making nostrils everywhere happy.

Lateef waited under a patch of trees, just up from the creek. Twigs and rocks were already gathered into a pile waiting to be lit. Lateef was bending and flexing green twigs.

“Where’re the matches?”

“Couldn’t get any. Ammy already had to borrow some to do the floor, and aunty’s pretty grumpy.” He nodded toward the fire. “There’s a couple of really dry bits of wood over there that’ll probably do.”
Slipping the news sheets under a nearby rock, Karim gathered up the twigs and worked at them, rubbing them together just like Abu had taught him.

Lateef measured flour into the empty can, jammed the tied off left-overs into his pocket, then loped off to fetch a bit of water from the creek.

It was a fiddly business, but worth it, Karim thought, as the twigs came to smoke-stage. He pushed them harder, his hands growing dry and scraped with effort. By the time Lateef returned, the fire crackled like seaweed on a sunny day.

They set the flour-water mixture over the fire and sat back to wait. The sun was dropping now: only a few inches remained between the creek and the horizon. At home, a bigger fire would be burning, and Ammy would be passing out drinks.

The bright pink cotton burned in Karim’s pocket; he touched it, reassuring himself that Ammy wouldn’t mind, that she would have said yes if Abu hadn’t already said no. Across from him, Lateef prattled about the new Tin-Tin at the library.

They would use it all, he decided, keeping it on the reel. Then it would be easy to spool it back up, scrape off the paste, and slip it back into the sugar box, no harm done. The Greater Good would remain intact.

Lateef poked the contents of the can with a twig. “It’s done,” he announced, using his toes to wriggle the tin out of the flames. Burnt rubber smell permeated the air. Karim winced, but said nothing. There wasn’t enough time to worry about Lateef’s shoes now. They lay two news sheets flat; Lateef knelt over them, tacking them to the ground. Together, they flexed and arranged the green sticks, then Lateef held them in place, too. Karim dipped his fingers into the can: gooey warmth slipped over them. Dripping, he lifted them out, then passed his fingers over the twigs, over the paper’s edge, deftly filling corners and cracks.

Lateef wriggled off the kite; they pressed the remaining news sheets down. Another coat of paste; together, they folded the sheet edges over, pulling them tight against the frame.
Now for the thread.

Karim took it from his pocket, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. It wasn’t fine cotton—the grain was coarse, hard, like undercooked rice. He unspooled a little, dipped it into the tin of paste. “What are you waiting for?”

“N-nothing,” Karim stammered, punching a hole in the paper with his finger. He slipped the cotton through, tied it off, glued the ends down, and, finally, rubbed the remaining paste off on to the grass.
Silent, the brothers stared at their handiwork. Only one more inch, and the sun would disappear for the night. Karim lifted his chin at the kite. “Go on, then,” he murmured. “Take it. And be careful with the thread. We have to return it.”

Lateef needed no second invitation. He was off, charging down the slope. The paper fluttered behind him, bobbing over currents and updrafts, steadily lifting higher and higher, thread unravelling with each lift…

* * *

Darkness seeped over the grass. The wind was dying down now; dew prickled Karim’s skin, raising goose bumps and making him shiver. Taking the reel from Lateef, he tugged the kite downward, carefully re-spooling the cotton. There hadn’t been time for both of them to fly it, and he was older, he could wait ‘til next time.

Finally, the kite lay in front of him: he untied the knot, pulled the thread, rubbed the remaining paste on the grass. There, he thought, slipping the reel back in his pocket. No harm done. No fun done, either.

“C’mon, I’ll race you home!” Lateef yelled, kicking dirt over the remains of the fire. “Last one back has to clear the dishes!”

The unmistakable smell of toasting cowpat wafted toward them; Karim sped off, suddenly desperate to win.