The Ink Bridge by Neil Grant

yawned until his nose ran, looking at Omed’s photo and then at him and back to the photo. ‘Mohammed Afghani?’ he asked. Omed nodded. The man held the photo up and then, as pearls of sweat ran into Omed’s eyes, he brought his rubber stamp down hard on a fresh page.
    Omed’s worn shoulder bag travelled slowly beside fresh, plump cases on a long belt. Inside was everything he owned – a few old clothes bought with the bag at the bazaar, a lump of cheap soap. Omed had sewn the rest of his money into his coat while the Snake was sleeping. Stitch by stitch he would unpick it and unfold stone-faced men into the Snake’s hand, buying his freedom a dollar at a time.
    As they shuffled through the doors and into the thick heat, two men stepped in front of them. One had a bad limp, his friend wore reflective sunglasses. They spoke quickly in the Hazaragi dialect of Omed’s homeland. The Snake turned them by their shoulders and walked away so they could talk without Omed overhearing. He stood and waited like a dutiful nephew. Like a lamb waiting for the Eid feast.
    Suddenly the two strangers marched quickly towards him, grabbing his bag, and his arm, and shoving him towards a waiting taxi.
    â€˜You ride in front. I must talk with your uncle.’
    Omed opened the door and saw a man with skin so dark he seemed to be made entirely of night.
    â€˜Jalan Tunku Abdul Rahman. Short way only, we are not touriss,’ growled the man with the sunglasses as he followed the Snake and the limping man into the back of the taxi. His English was clumsy in his mouth. He smacked the driver on the neck. ‘And we pay air so turn it over.’
    The driver looked at Omed and smiled, flicking the switch so the air conditioning moaned into life. He reached for another switch and a small statue on the dashboard was suddenly haloed in red and green flashing lights. The men behind snorted and Omed heard the word kafir . The statue was a Hindu god, its head heavy with a gold crown and in its right hand a thick spear with a heart-shaped head.
    Although he had been brought up in a land where there was but one God, Omed knew from books that in other countries people worshipped different deities. In India there were elephant-headed gods and those with many arms and heads. He had heard the mullahs talk of these idols, deride them, and denounce them as demons. The people who followed them were infidels and beyond salvation; for them it would not be a smooth ride into the afterlife.
    Omed was raised a Muslim and taught tolerance. His father had said the many gods of the Hindus were all aspects of one God and that all people’s belief in something similar united them. For these words the Talib had delivered him to his God.
    The driver saw Omed staring at the tiny figure on his dash. ‘Lord Murugan,’ he said to him, continuing in English. ‘He is my God. Number-wan. I love him wery much. He is helping me when no one else can.’
    The driver reached for the radio. The tinny wail of a Hindi song struck the cold air inside the taxi. It was like two strange currents meeting in the fork of a river and the whirlpool they created made Omed’s head turn circles. He had not slept on the plane, which added to his dizziness. He closed his eyes for a moment.

    He bumped awake in a crowded street in front of a crumbling hotel. The Snake reached in through the window and pinched him on the cheek.
    â€˜Hurry,’ he said.
    The taxi driver held out his hand to Omed.
    â€˜It was nice to be meeting you,’ he said.
    â€˜Come on!’ yelled the Snake.
    Inside the hotel, Sikhs in neat blue turbans were sipping large mugs of beer. Tourists were rubbing sweat from their cheeks onto the shoulders of their short-sleeved shirts while around them, paint sloughed from the walls in leprous sheets. The creaking fans did not even wake the heavy air.
    They put their bags in a room then ate lunch at a wooden table in the