A Fallen Man

He skidded across the icy sidewalk like a hockey puck towards the net until he banged into the side of my taxi. Thin and not dressed for the weather-a flimsy leather jacket over a t-shirt-his unsocked ankles scraped against stiff leather wingtips.
I wondered if he was from India.

“My family has business in Bombay and Karachi, but I’m from Chicago, man.”

The exaggerated south Chi-town sway of his voice lent his disclaimer a touch of credibility. But not enough. Nosing the cab into Nicollet Avenue I asked him, in Urdu, whether he had been to Bombay recently.

“India? Why would I visit that shit-hole, man? Screwed-up country. Just like Pakistan.”

Outside a wood panelled boarding house in the part of downtown where losers hibernate for years on end, like birds asleep in chloroformed jars, he invited me upstairs to his tiny attic room. I had to bend my head to avoid hitting the steep sloping ceiling before plopping onto a springy bed next to the salt-streaked window. He kicked a chair on to its hind legs within easy reach of a jug of California chablis and a stack of Bud Lite and began to talk. At times he shouted at me as he stomped and kicked things about, other times I had to strain to hear. Many times that day he cried real tears. He told me his given name-Jamaludin or something-but I’ve forgotten it now; Deano was his American name.

Deano had been born into that most conservative of sub-continental communities. “I’m a Khoja!” It came out his throat like a glob of phlegm. In addition to tending businesses in Pakistan, Hongkong and India, Deano’s father nurtured a deep hatred for his son which Deano reciprocated by getting expelled from every elite school on the sub-continent. “The best day of my life, man, was when I was sent into ‘exile’ to be with my uncle in Chicago.”

Life in America, with no family ties, was different but it was the same in that Deano kept lurching from disaster to disaster. A legit job led to hustling which got him a police file which led to being booted out of Chicago’s Khoja community. A few years later Deano found himself behind bars on drugs charges.

“Have you ever killed anyone?” he asked out of the blue. “You know, nail a bastard?”

In Sing Sing Prison Deano ‘did in’ two dudes. “It felt good. We were filing past in the shower and I slipped in the blade, just like that. Real easy, man.”

This was an immigrant’s tale gone awry. Deano’s telling was full of boasting and awe at the wonders of the new world but what summit had he conquered? Sing Sing, one of the fabulous prisons of America. The airy heights of criminal detention in the Holy Land of guns and street crime.

For the first time Deano knew warmth and acceptance. In the grim cells of the penitentiary Deano arrived at the place he’d always longed to be-the point of most distance from his father. He’d come home at last. At last he was able to shed his Khoja skin. Now he was something else. An American. A con. His homeland was nothing except some letters on a map. His wife was disgraced and broken hearted. Deano forged a new identity by destroying all he had inherited and been taught to be.

From somewhere under the litter and clothes spread around his floor Deano pulled out a tape and popped open the player. Ghulam Ali’s mournful voice filled the room with a song popular in Pakistan years ago. A ghazal of extinguished hope and dead-ended souls. One line in particular, summed things up.

Is dasht mein ek shahr tha/ kya hua/ awaargi (In this desert once was a city/ where is it now?/ Desolation)

Among the things Deano left prison with was a nose for cocaine. Paroled but broke, his return to the edges was as inevitable as a refugee’s despair. There were some attempts to reconcile with his family. He called his wife. He called his uncle. He even called his father. All in all Deano collected several thousand dollars which he blew on white powder. Sensing trouble, he caught the bus to Minneapolis where he had had “no hassles so far.”

“Do you know what it means to die? I do. I was riding the bus into town when suddenly my left hand and arm went numb. The coldness creeped higher and higher. I was scared shitless. I’m 31 and I’m going to die! I was sweating just like when my father used to take off his belt to beat me. I collapsed and woke up in some hospital with all sorts of people looking down on me. They wanted to know if I used coke. They said I was lucky to be alive.” Deano sighed. “I haven’t snorted for a month. But God I love her.”

Wouldn’t things be better if he headed back to India?

“I would love to, man. Really.” With his eyes closed he lit another cigarette. All of a sudden he grabbed my hands and pleaded, “I would love to. But I can’t.” His shoulders slouched as he started to sob. “Main gira hua insaan hu. I’m a fallen man. I can’t get up. I’m completely fallen.”

I met Deano the next night in a low-life bar on the south side. He was already drunk when I arrived and by the time I left had pulled a knife on a stranger. Here in this tavern we shared nothing at all.

About a week later outside the Yukon Club on Lake Street I saw a couple of squad cars and a crowd. When I slowed down to catch a glimpse of the action I saw Deano fall on his knees, blood flowing from his nose: a lost and bullied school boy.

Awaargi.